The woman smiled—a small, sad thing. “She remembers me. This ship was mine, once. Before the war. Before I had to sell her.”
The woman’s eyes met his. They were old. Older than her face. “The Guild wanted to sell you disposable parts every six months. A crilock, if you treat it right, will last a hundred years. It becomes part of the ship. It remembers every journey, every strain, every whisper of the stars you’ve flown through.”
“You’re burning daylight, and coolant,” said a voice like gravel sliding down a chute. crilock
He was about to give up and radio for a tow when a shadow fell over the engine bay.
The ship’s AI, a faded ghost of a personality named Sess, flickered to life on a small holo-panel. “The secondary fuel regulator is fused. Again. Recommend replacement.” The woman smiled—a small, sad thing
Kaelen looked at the crilock’s gentle pulse, then at the woman’s weathered face. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel alone.
“What is that?” Kaelen asked, a prickle running down his spine. Before the war
“They outlawed those,” he whispered. “The Guild said they were unstable. That they could… imprint.”