With the Tartarusios landing in the Basin of Trass, repairs began rapidly. The crew used that time to take a breath, to scatter for a few hours and live for themselves again. Yet among everyone who already had a home on Antia, there was Tarko—the old man from the Baraka age. He had been sixty-three when he left his own timeline, thrust into a future he could not comprehend, adventuring beside a crew he had met only weeks ago by normal measure. As everyone drifted out of the base one by one, he remained behind, simply standing there, watching from afar, feeling quietly alienated. This was a time he understood nothing about.
As he gazed out toward the planet beyond the hangar shield, Youri noticed him. He approached, standing beside him, and asked in a calm, low voice, "Hey, old man… how's the future looking?"Tarko smirked. "Unimaginable."
Youri pulled out a cigarette. As the flame flickered and he lit it, he said, "Well, I guess if I were in your shoes, I'd say the same."Tarko turned toward him, eyes widening when he saw the smoke curling from the cigarette. In a rowdy voice he said, "Give me one of those."
Youri handed him one."Do you know how much I missed this? My god," Tarko muttered as he inhaled deeply.Youri grinned. "I know the feeling, old man. I ran out a while back—almost drove me nuts."
Tarko stared at the view ahead. "Now even if I die, I can die a peaceful man."He immediately choked on the smoke."Take it easy, old man," Youri said, patting his back. "You're a free man now. No need to rush."
They crushed out the filters and walked toward the exit of the base. Outside, across the colossal crater, just 150 kilometers away, stood the settlement of Brussels.
It sprawled across the shallow basin of Trass like cracked stone—an improvised city stitched from whatever its people could drag, weld, or repurpose until it held together. Ancient shipwrecks—scavenged frigates, gutted transports, rust-eaten cargo haulers—formed its crooked skeleton. Their broken hulls stood upright like warped towers, fused with layers of scav-steel, cable bundles, and raw stubborn ingenuity. Between them stretched walkways of mismatched plating, humming with borrowed power and the thrum of patched-together generators.
Where metal failed, the Domes took over—great arched shells of reinforced glass and carbon lattice, their surfaces cloudy from years of sandstorms and recycled air. Inside each Dome was its own self-contained world: warm lantern lights, food stalls built from container crates, small markets overflowing with scavenged tech, and sun-lamps imitating a sky long lost. Moss and hardy shrubs clung to hydroponic beds along the edges, giving the air a faint earthy scent—just enough to almost fool the senses into believing it was natural.
The settlement wasn't large—barely enough to be called a town—but it breathed with relentless activity. Wanderers arrived with dust on their boots and half-truths in their pockets. Traders hauled crates of contraband and spare parts through narrow, twisting alleys. Outlaws drank in makeshift taverns carved inside hollowed ship torsos, keeping their eyes sharp for opportunity or danger—often the same thing.
The air was thick with overlapping voices: haggling, laughing, arguing, shouting. Engines roared from open repair bays where mechanics worked knee-deep in grease. Children wove between adults, darting across metal decks that vibrated with the pulse of the settlement's life-support grid.
Youri glanced at Tarko. "Hey old man, found a place to crash?"Tarko scratched his chin. With dry sarcasm he said, "Where can a ten-thousand-year-old man even live?"
Youri burst into laughter. "Well, there are plenty of hostels here, but if I were you, I'd stay the hell away from them. Things tend to… disappear. And I'm guessing you don't have any money?"Tarko replied, dead serious, "I haven't seen a currency bill in more than ten-thousand thirty years."
Youri kept laughing, almost uncontrollably. "Oh, I haven't laughed like this in a while. Thanks, old man. For that, I'll let you crash at my place."
Tarko's eyes widened with genuine relief.Youri smiled and motioned toward the parked vehicles. "Come on. Hop in."
As they drove across the Basin of Trass, Tarko couldn't help but marvel at how people could live on such a desolate world. Everywhere he looked was dust and rock—and yet entire settlements thrived here. After about an hour, they reached Brussels.
Youri's home was located inside the Atomium—an architectural relic built from fragments of abandoned Dome structures, believed to be designed by an inspiration predating any known historical data. Modeled after atomic geometry, it was composed of nine interconnected metallic spheres, each one a self-contained apartment pod. The tenth rested in the central hub where all pathways converged—a kind of suspended penthouse.
Each sphere was clad in reflective geodesic panels, connected by cylindrical corridors that allowed residents to move between pods and shared spaces. Inside, the apartments were small and simple, with curved walls and modest windows, but they possessed responsive smart surfaces that lit up at touch or voice.
Tarko was in awe of the Atomium. To his surprise, everyone who lived there was part of the Tartarusios. Oscar was waiting at the entrance, leaning casually against the wall. "What took you so long?" he said. "We finished our work ages ago."
Youri answered, "We stopped for a smoke. Took a bit. But we're here, aren't we?"
Oscar walked straight to Tarko. He stopped in front of him, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a card key. "Hey old man, we've got a welcoming gift for you. Here. From now on, that's your personal home."
Tarko's eyes filled with tears as he hugged Oscar tightly."Thank you," he said. "Thank you for giving me a second chance at life."
While the crew shared the moment with quiet warmth, far out in the cold void, Mikhail's fleet continued drawing closer and closer. But none of that mattered right then. The Tartarusios were celebrating a new member of their family.