Kilews sat in the dark of the engine room, surrounded by the ghosts trapped in silver cages. She could fix a coolant leak. She could patch a hull breach. But she had no idea how to repair a broken soul.
“Stow the chatter, Kilews,” Voss had grumbled that morning, slapping a data-slate onto her workbench. “We’ve got a priority run. Gilded trinkets to Velorum Prime. High pay. Low questions.” kilews
“We need credits,” Voss cut her off. “Get it done.” Kilews sat in the dark of the engine
“They’re sentient,” Kilews whispered. But she had no idea how to repair a broken soul
So Kilews had done what she always did. She patched, jury-rigged, and prayed. She replaced the seal with a triple layer of thermal tape and whispered a plea to the Machine God her mother had taught her about. The drive rumbled to life, a surly, grudging sound.
Her hands were always stained. Not with glory, but with engine oil from the old Kessler-9 drive that wheezed and coughed like a dying man. Captain Voss said the ship had a soul. Kilews said the ship had a leaking primary coolant seal, and if Voss didn’t sign off on the repair order, that soul was going to become a permanent, frozen ghost.
“The lock is weak. The seal is false. You are not a thief, but you will be a thief.”