Chapter 2: Doer of the work...

Proverbs 1 : 7

“The fear of the LORD is the beginning of knowledge, but fools despise wisdom and instruction.”

The CS01 drifts into the docking bay of The First Last Stop, engines whispering their last breath.  As she crosses the threshold, the dock comes alive—panels lighting one by one, an awakening.  From the corners and walls, androids and bots spring to life like a well-rehearsed orchestra: arms unfolding, lenses adjusting, tools whirring.  They move with purpose—cleaning drones, repair units, diagnostics bots—all snapping to attention as the ship’s weary frame settles into place.

CS01 isn’t well.  The dark sick taint has crawled too deep, its shadow embedded in her core systems.   Even her hum sounds strained, tired.  Moose had no choice but to shut her down.  For now, she rests.

Up on the bridge, Art-bot and Q-bot stand side by side at the viewport.  The stars beyond spill like liquid gold across their polished plating.  Art-bot’s cyan seams glow faintly as she monitors the ship’s vitals.  Q-bot’s optics blink, soft but alert, tail of light flickering like a pulse.  Below them, the star deck bursts into motion.  Androids and autonomous machines glide into position, scrubbing hull plates, patching seams, sealing fractures where the taint had burned through.  The smell of ozone and solvent fills the bay, sharp and familiar.  Supply crates stack in neat lines, towering like altars of industry.

Across the way, in the shimmer of distant light, a figure approaches—slow, deliberate, cloaked in refracted glow.  A Turvalen.   The species moves with grace born of machinery and purpose, wrapped head to toe in sleek diplomatic armor.  Translucent plating shifts color with their tone, language woven directly into light. They are emissaries—born for mediation, for the fragile peace between stars.

Moose pulls his hat brim low, red against the dock lights, and steps out to meet them. His white Pumas tap steady against the metal floor, echoing between the quiet hum of machines.  He pauses halfway, breathes in the hum of the living dock, and looks back once through the observation glass—at his ship, his crew, his charge.  Then he turns toward the Turvalen.

Moose tips his hat, studying the armored figure for a long beat.  “Morning.”

The Turvalen’s head tilts, the faint shimmer of its translator field flickering amber.  When it speaks, the voice comes from somewhere deep within the suit — metallic, digitized, layered in tone.  “Your attempts at courtesy, Christian, are not appreciated.  I am ordered to tolerate your presence.  State your need.”

Moose exhales, slow and easy, like steam from an engine that refuses to rush.  “Whoa, easy there, partner.  Just looking for some water and maybe some coffee.  And tea.  And soup.”  He pauses, glances back toward the dock, the bustle of bots and androids washing CS01 down under the gold-blue light.  “Okay, so… a little bit.”

He rocks gently from his heels to his toes, hands buried in his trench coat pockets, red cap low against the bay’s glare.  The Turvalen’s visor flashes — faint pulses of green text scroll across its chest plate, unreadable but impatient.  “I’ll pay for the cleanup, too,” Moose adds, nodding toward the ship.  “She’s got more scars than sense right now, but we’re getting there.”

A pause — the hum of the hangar swelling around them, the distant clang of tools and the muffled prayers of working bots.

“Say,” Moose continues, his voice softening into that easy drawl, “that guy I talked to last time around — he still here?”

The Turvalen straightens, armor shifting with a hiss of pneumatics.  For a second, the visor dims — thinking, remembering, or pretending to.

“He remains… present,” it replies.

Moose smiles faintly.

Proverbs 23: 1-8

“When you sit down to eat with a ruler, consider carefully what is before you; and put a knife to your throat if you are a man given to appetite.  Do not desire his delicacies, for they are deceptive food.  Do not overwork to be rich; because of your own understanding, cease!  Will you set your eyes on that which is not?  For riches certainly make themselves wings; they fly away like an eagle toward heaven.  Do not eat the bread of a miser, nor desire his delicacies; for as he thinks in his heart, so is he.  ‘Eat and drink!’ He says to you, but his heart is not with you.  The morsel you have eaten, you will vomit up, and waste your pleasant words.”