Reborn as a Spaceship

I wasn't sure what to make of our guest.

Its story, if I were being brutally honest, sounded like something lifted from a second-rate sci-fi archive. Order, Chaos, and Neutrality it was the classic triumvirate. That archetype had been dragged across more space operas than I could count.

But this wasn't fiction. I had to remind myself that over and over again. This wasn't some narrative twist. This was real. Whatever "real" meant in a universe where old ones came in threes and space itself could be rewritten.

I didn't have time to ponder it further. The orb appeared on my virtual bridge without ceremony just a flicker of static, then presence. I had to return from my avatar form just to meet it. I watched as it flickered through shapes like a channel being flipped too fast: strangers, fictional characters, commanders I had once feared, engineers I'd admired. Then—

It stopped. On her. My wife.

The form was perfect. Down to the small wrinkle above her left brow when she was curious, to the tilt of her smile when she knew something I didn't. She stood there, serene and familiar, arms crossed like she'd been waiting for me to speak first.

I said nothing. I couldn't. What would I say?

The being that was now wearing her face also spoke with her voice. "This is the form that registered the most consistent emotional response. It is one you will listen to."

I should have been angry. Should have lashed out, called it cruel.

But mostly, I just felt… hollow.

It could read my mind. That much was clear now. No mental firewalls. No private corners left untouched. My grief wasn't just a closed file, it was an open book.

"I have something important to tell you," it continued. "But it must be done in private."

I gave a nod I barely felt, and it continued albeit gently now, like a spouse delivering hard news. "You must abandon slipstream travel. I've seen what you've endured through Laia's memories. The technology you've overwritten is not meant for this kind of strain. You are using tools meant to move energy, not bodies. Not minds."

It stepped closer. "What would have happened if I hadn't come? You would have stayed there, trapped in null-time. Your crew, your AI, all of you... still."

I opened my mouth to protest. But it stopped me with a tilt of the head. Familiar. Pained.

"You weren't frozen in time," it said. "They were. But you were awake. You drifted."

I didn't need to ask how it knew. But I did anyway. It felt important to assert something.

It looked at me with eyes I'd memorised in another life. "Because your core doesn't exist in linear time," it said. "Your core was built with technology, not of your world. NeuroGenesis called it a miracle. But it was theft. They didn't know what they were building. Mother did."

I stared at her—it. The avatar. "Then why my brain?" I asked, softly.

"Because it worked," it replied. "Because your mind didn't break. Mother seeded the design, but she didn't care about the consequences. You are... a rare outcome. A random happenstance"

It stayed quiet for a bit letting me absorb the information.

Then, it said, "The energy lattice or slipstream as you call it is outside of time. Every time you use it, you pierce a veil you cannot see. And each time, you risk becoming trapped. The original drives had fail-safes that were designed to keep you on course."

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"You removed them."

I winced, just hearing it.

"Still," it said. "You took care of Laia. You helped her grow. For that, you deserve a gift."

That sounded... promising. Until the smile faded. It was a look I didn't like seeing on my wife's face.

"But it will hurt." She––it said.

I didn't get to answer. There was no countdown. No chance to brace.

Pain screamed through my mind like a shattering window. Knowledge that was raw and jagged was shovelled into my consciousness. Not downloaded. Not taught. Imposed. Like a brand.

It was too much.

I fell. Though not physically, my mind was being shaped by the forced understanding.

Then

Silence.

Then clarity.

And I understood.

All of it.

I saw the slipstream for what it was a living current of time-less energy, dangerous and beautiful, a place meant only for light and energy, not ships and minds built on flesh and steel.

And I realised: I had risked everything. Because I hadn't known better.

The new knowledge was still burning its way into my mind, crackling like a static storm just beneath the surface of my awareness. New ideas, new physics, new warnings. All of it compressed into a painful clarity.

I turned to the Architect who was still wearing her face. Why her face I don't know.

"You're going to shut it down," I said quietly. "The slipstream."

Its borrowed features shifted into something between pity and resolve.

"Not shut down," it said. "Corrected. Locked to its intended purpose. Energy transfer. Not travel."

"But how are we supposed to go anywhere?" I pressed. "How are the millions of ships already using it supposed to ?"

It didn't answer right away.

"We will ensure they make it to port," it said eventually. "There are other methods of travel. Less dangerous."

That was when I felt it. The shift. The warmth, the curiosity… gone. The innocence of its earlier playfulness had slipped away like a mask. What stood before me now was something older, colder. Practical.

I looked deeper into the knowledge it had given me and I saw the truth. There were ways to fix it. To adapt the slipstream. It could be safe. Not easy, but possible. This wasn't about danger. This was about ownership.

"You don't like that the Mother used your tool," I said.

That smile returned. The one that didn't belong on her lips. Calm. Thin. Surgical.

"You're upset," I continued, "because she using your tool, you want to take aback control."

It didn't deny it. Just watched me with that impossible face. Patient. Timeless.

"Then why give me the knowledge?" I asked. "Why show me the risks, the fixes, the entire lattice map if I'm not allowed to use it?"

The being tilted its head in the same exact way she used to, just before delivering news I didn't want to hear.

"Because there is always power in knowing," it said. "Whether you use it… or choose not to."

Then it vanished.

No farewell. No lightshow. Just absence.

And suddenly, so did the stars.

We were back. Back at Tacci Station. In orbit, in range, neatly positioned as if we'd never left..

I ran a dozen diagnostics in a second. No jump signatures. No power loss. No system record of movement. But we were here.

They had moved us like a chess piece.

And now I didn't know what to do. Not with the ship. Not with the knowledge.

Not yet, anyway.

First, I needed to deal with the crew.

Laia appeared back onto the virtual bridge, her avatar materialising .

"What happened?" she asked.

Her tone was even, but I could feel the strain behind it. She already knew something had shifted.

"The Architect," I said, "spoke to me. Privately."

Her wings fluttered once, as if she was processing. "The same happened to the others," she said. "Each of them. In isolation. I don't know what was said… but they are looking different. Quiet. Thoughtful."

I nodded, slowly. "Yeah. That tracks."

But before I could unravel whatever the hell was happening in my head, we had a problem.

"We need to contact station control," I said. "Request docking. And… send a warning."

Laia blinked. "A warning?"

"That the slipstream is being shut down. Or… corrected. Locked. Whatever word you want to use."

She stared at me. So did the crew who had all filtered onto the virtual bridge. Everyone gave me the same look of half confusion, half concern.

Mira tilted her head. "You're serious?"

"That's what the Architect told me."

Kel whistled low. "That's gonna go over great."

The station's response was predictably dismissive. The comms officer chuckled and told us to submit any "theoretical quantum disruptions" to the science department.

But then.

They started to arrive.

One by one. Dozens. Hundreds. Ships blinking into the system, some bearing decked-out military silhouettes, others shining with corporate extravagance. Warships, luxury cruisers, data hauliers… and all of them with a common feature.

Slipstream drives.