The ship settled into a steady hum.
The shaking stopped. The alarms were quiet. The lights stayed on.
Jerad stayed where he was, crouched in front of the boy. He did not rush to speak. He let the space stretch. The boy noticed. He kept his eyes on the floor.
The metal beneath him was scratched and dull. One panel was darker than the rest. Someone had spilled something there once. It had dried wrong.
"What's your name?" Jerad asked.
The boy did not answer right away.
He rubbed his thumb against his finger, slow and steady. When he spoke, his voice was flat.
"I don't know."
Pethia made a sound in her throat.
"You don't know," she said. "Or you don't want to say."
"I don't know," the boy said again.
Jerad watched his face. He did not move.
"No name at all," Jerad said. "Not even one you use sometimes."
The boy shook his head.
"No one ever called you anything."
Another shake.
Jerad nodded once.
"All right," he said. "Then we start somewhere else."
He shifted his weight slightly. Not closer. Not farther.
"How long have you been on your own."
The boy frowned. Not because he was confused. Because he was trying.
"As long as I remember," he said.
Pethia crossed her arms.
"That's not an answer."
"It is," the boy said. "That's all there is."
Jerad did not look at her.
"You don't remember your parents," he said.
The boy hesitated.
"I know people have them," he said. "I just don't know mine."
"You never lived with anyone," Jerad asked.
"No."
"Never had someone who stayed," Pethia said. "Who told you when to sleep. When to eat."
The boy shrugged.
"People helped sometimes."
"That's not the same," she said.
He did not argue.
Jerad leaned back on his heels.
"Where do you live," he asked.
The boy thought.
"The street."
Pethia let out a short laugh.
"Which one," Jerad asked.
The boy shook his head.
"Different ones."
"You don't have a place," Jerad said.
"No."
Jerad glanced at Pethia, then back to the boy.
"How old are you."
The boy opened his mouth. Closed it.
"I don't know."
Pethia studied him. His height. His frame. His face.
"Twelve," she said. "Thirteen maybe."
The boy did not react.
"You never counted," Jerad said.
"No one told me to."
The ship shifted slightly. Something thudded deeper inside the hull and then settled. The hum stayed even.
Jerad waited.
"When the planet started breaking," he said, "you ran."
"Yes."
"You didn't stop to look for anyone."
"No."
"You didn't wait."
"No."
Pethia tilted her head.
"And you ended up on our ship."
The boy looked at her.
"The ramp was open," he said. "And it was leaving."
"That's it."
"Yes."
Jerad studied him.
"Most people freeze," he said. "Or they follow other people."
The boy swallowed.
"It was loud," he said.
"Loud how."
"Too much."
Jerad waited.
"It felt bad," the boy added. "In my head."
Pethia shifted her stance.
"You expect us to believe you just felt like our ship was the right one."
"I didn't think," the boy said. "I just moved."
Jerad glanced at the wall. At the mark where something had hit during ascent. At the place where the ship had nearly torn itself apart.
Then he looked back.
"In my world," Jerad said, "there was a word."
Pethia stiffened.
"For people who didn't belong anywhere," he continued. "People who had no place left."
The boy listened.
"Aludin," Jerad said.
The boy repeated it quietly.
"Aludin."
Jerad nodded.
"It means lost."
The boy looked down.
"That works," he said.
Pethia frowned.
"You're naming him."
"Temporary," Jerad said. "Unless he chooses something else."
The boy did not object.
The comms light blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Jerad stood.
"Mikael," he said.
The pilot's voice came through.
"We just got a transmission."
Jerad's jaw tightened.
"From who."
There was a pause.
"Saya."
Pethia straightened.
"She's not supposed to be here."
"That's why I'm worried," Mikael said. "Signal's unstable."
Jerad stepped closer to the panel.
"Put it through."
Static filled the room.
Then a woman's voice cut in.
"Jerad," Saya said. "You need to move."
Jerad did not interrupt.
"The war spread faster than projected," she said. "The Empire broke through the outer ridge three cycles ago."
Pethia swore.
"That's not possible," Mikael said. "Those routes—"
"Are being closed," Saya said. "One by one."
Jerad felt the boy shift behind him.
"You didn't just escape destruction," Saya continued. "You left a target."
Jerad narrowed his eyes.
"The planet," she said. "Arkhan weapon deployment. Full scale."
The boy's chest tightened.
"Jerad," Saya said. "You need to hyperdive now."
"How long," Jerad asked.
A pause.
"Minutes," she said.
The transmission cut.
The room went quiet.
Mikael spoke.
"I can charge the drive," he said. "But it won't be clean."
"It never is," Pethia said.
Jerad turned.
"Spin it up," he said.
"With him onboard," Pethia said.
"Yes."
The lights dimmed.
Deep in the ship, something began to rise in pitch.
The boy's breath caught.
His hands curled.
The pressure returned.
Stronger.
Jerad saw it this time. The way the boy stiffened. The way his shoulders locked.
"You okay," Jerad asked.
The boy shook his head.
The hum deepened.
The floor vibrated.
A warning tone sounded once.
Then stopped.
Mikael's voice came through again.
"Routes are dropping fast."
The pressure pressed harder. The boy's vision blurred. He grabbed the wall.
Pethia noticed.
"What's wrong with him."
"I don't know," Jerad said.
The boy slid down until he was sitting.
His breathing was fast. Too fast.
The hum rose higher.
The ship lurched.
Something outside struck the hull.
Another hit followed.
"Jerad," Mikael said. "We're getting boxed in."
The pressure spiked.
The boy gasped.
The lights flickered.
Then steadied.
The ship shifted.
The impacts stopped.
Mikael went quiet.
"Jerad," he said slowly. "That lane was gone."
"Jump us out!" Jerad shouted. Mikael drove the throttle forward, alarms blaring as the ship lurched and ripped into hyperdrive.