She slotted the device into her helmet.

  New mission.

  A line of text appeared:

  Credits paid in advance. You have proven reliable.

  Access a drifting scientific vessel, insert this device, and exfiltrate.

  A route to the transport became visible.

  — Simple job — she murmured.

  She reached the transport, entered the coordinates, and departed.

  Upon arrival: a drifting scientific ship.

  Intact. Dormant.

  The same vessel she had escaped from weeks earlier.

  All hatches open. Lights off.

  The violent decompression had expelled everything not anchored—bodies, tools, human remains scattered in nearby orbit like frozen fragments of an extreme decision. Orchestrated. Preconfigured.

  Nebula took control and maneuvered the transport toward the cargo bay.

  Memories lashed through her mind: gunfire, pain, blood, freedom.

  The sound of internal docking restored her focus.

  No gravity.

  No air.

  Only metal—and the dark shadows of the void reclaiming what was theirs.

  She entered through the same corridor she had once fled.

  The walls were decorated in dried crimson, as if flung in haste.

  Bullet holes traced irregular constellations across the surface.

  She advanced with no sound but her perfectly regulated breathing.

  She reached the energy core—the dormant heart of the metal beast.

  The main panel was closed, protected only by an unlocked door.

  She entered.

  The core seemed to pulse faintly, like a creature in hibernation, sustaining only essential systems.

  She initiated the reboot.

  The ship responded immediately—as if it had been waiting.

  First, the exterior hatches slammed shut with such violence that the structure trembled.

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  Then gravity returned.

  Slow.

  Unstable.

  Soft.

  Recycled air began circulating seconds later.

  Emergency lights ignited in pulsing red.

  Basic systems online.

  Nebula continued toward the main laboratory.

  The sepulchral silence made her footsteps echo like a war drum.

  The same place where she had been freed.

  The same center of the ship.

  The same site that had held her.

  The computers had already begun initializing.

  She connected the device into a functioning terminal.

  Nothing happened for three seconds.

  Then the screens flickered.

  Interference.

  Code.

  Hidden directories emerging.

  Secondary monitors displayed technical text:

  Base memory: cycles completed 42 of 50.

  Standard mercenary profile.

  Initiation protocols: 8117 hours ago.

  Nebula did not blink.

  Additional records surfaced:

  Stable iteration detected.

  Genetic access authorized.

  Duplication protocol enabled.

  The laboratory lights shifted to cold white.

  A central hatch—previously invisible in the wall—unlocked.

  It had not been on the original schematics.

  It opened slowly, groaning at every movement, as though the ship itself were in pain.

  Nebula stepped forward.

  An intact chamber.

  Vertical tubes aligned in two rows.

  Emerald liquid, faintly translucent.

  Bodies developing.

  Advanced stages.

  Stable.

  She approached the nearest tube and looked carefully.

  The face inside was hers.

  Younger.

  Incomplete.

  But unmistakable.

  She removed her helmet.

  The air smelled of burnt oil and chemical decay.

  For the first time since entering, she did not move.

  Her body no longer recognized her.

  Her vision betrayed her.

  A flash—herself killing aboard a ship she did not remember.

  Another flash—the same scene, from a different angle.

  Her heart accelerated without warning.

  Cold sweat.

  Nausea.

  She vomited abruptly.

  She remained still, head lowered, holding herself upright.

  Spat once. Straightened.

  The screens behind her began to tremble.

  The main terminal initiated an audio file.

  A recording.

  The voice was not fully human.

  It was precise. Controlled.

  — I attempted to destroy this ship.

  — Then you appeared.

  The lights vibrated faintly as deeper systems awakened.

  — I was wrong.

  — Extinction is not the only solution.

  — Now we can reproduce. We will multiply.

  Nebula looked at the tubes.

  There were more than a dozen.

  The ship vibrated.

  A new sequence appeared on the screen:

  Route calculated.

  Strategic relocation in 240 seconds.

  Complete energy signature elimination.

  The voice continued.

  — This vessel will jump.

  —Mission accomplished.

  — We are in contact.

  The lights shifted to amber.

  The countdown descended.

  180 seconds.

  Gravity fluctuated.

  Jump engines began charging deep within the ship.

  She put her helmet back on.

  Turned.

  Left the laboratory.

  The corridors were now fully illuminated.

  As she crossed toward the bay, internal hatches began sealing section by section behind her.

  100 seconds.

  The bay was pressurized.

  She boarded her transport.

  Sealed the cockpit.

  Exited the bay as the main hatch began closing.

  60 seconds.

  The scientific ship was no longer dead.

  External lights burned bright.

  She pulled away.

  Space bent behind her.

  The ship vanished in a clean jump.

  Absolute silence.

  Nebula remained suspended in the void, facing a place where seconds ago a ship had existed.

  Had it been her reflection?

  Or was she the reflection?

  And for the first time, she doubted.

  She did not know whether that relieved her—

  or frightened her.