Chapter 2: The Rebuild Begins...

The helm of the CS01 exploded in sparks—flames licked at the consoles, ducts coughed smoke into the blue-lit storm.  Titus had blown her circuits again, but this time… this time there was something different.  The readouts pulsed with crimson hearts, the screens flickering like living things, whispering static hymns in binary tongues—machine prayer gone rogue.

Moose threw back his head and laughed—wild, bright, uncontainable.  His voice rang against the steel, caught in the hum of burning wire and the choir of failing lights.  He swung the fire extinguisher into his arms like an old friend and dove through the haze, laughter cutting through the smoke, through the chaos, through whatever strange miracle had just taken root in his ship.

Then, without warning, the art-bot shrieked mid-stroke.  It crackled, sizzled, split down its chassis, and slumped to the deck—its servos stuttering, spitting out the mangled ghosts of half-born images.  The smell of ozone filled the air, and for a heartbeat, even the fire seemed to hold its breath.

James 1: 2-8

“My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience.  But let patience have its perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing.  If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask of God, who gives to all liberally and without reproach, and it will be given to him.  But let him ask in faith, with no doubting, for he who doubts is like a wave of the sea driven and tossed by the wind.  For let not that man supposed that he will receive anything from the Lord; he is a double-minded man, unstable in all his ways.”

Patience has a funny way of stretching the Mondays—pulling them longer than they ought to be, like time bending around some unseen gravity well.  But Moose wasn’t anywhere near a black hole, and there were no strange phenomena outside the ship.  Whatever had slowed the clock aboard the CS01 wasn’t out there.  It was in here.

The circuits were cooked.  The code corrupted beyond reason.  The ship’s core was little more than a smoking hymn of ones and zeroes.  Moose would have to start from scratch, rebuild her soul line by line.  But there was something different this time—something new humming underneath the ruin.  He could feel it in his gut.  The CS01 would rise again.  She always did.

The art-bot, though… that was another story.

Moose put out the last of the fires, the air thick with burnt wire and static prayer.  He dropped into the helm chair, lungs catching up to the laughter still echoing off the bulkheads.  With a slow exhale, he tugged the brim of his red cap low.

“Alright,” he said, voice half-grin, half-exhaustion.  “Unexpected.”  He hit the shipwide comms.  “Crew, heads up—art’s gonna look a little weird for a bit while I rebuild the art-bot.  Don’t panic!  Nothing’s wrong!”  He paused, listening to the faint hum of dead systems.  “Well… okay.  Something’s wrong.  The art-bot’s fried.  CS01’s code is shot.  And—” he glanced left, then right, as though the shadows were listening— “there might be an alien onboard.  But other than that, we’re good.”

He clicked off the comms, rolling his shoulders with a wry smile.  The consoles flickered like half-awake ghosts.  “Learn to code,” he muttered, fingers dancing over the keyboard. “I’ve got your code right here…”

2 Timothy 3: 16-17

“All Scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness, that the man of God may be complete, thoroughly equipped for every good work.”

The hum of the CS01 had gone still.  Silence stretched across the decks like a shroud—only the soft ticking of metal cooling, the faint hiss of extinguished flame.  Moose sat at the helm, cap pulled low, eyes half-lidded against the blue glow of the consoles.  Lines of code sprawled across the cracked displays, half-dead, half-born.  Every keystroke felt like prayer—each semicolon a heartbeat, each command a whispered plea: rise again, girl.

“Alright,” he murmured, typing slow.  “We start simple.  Boot the nav-core.  Then we see if the spirit’s still home.”  The keys clicked.  The fans stirred.

A sound like breath filled the cabin—thin, mechanical, but alive.  One monitor flickered to life, showing nothing but static.  Then—a pulse.  A single red heart.

“Ha.” Moose smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You again.”

The pulse brightened, rhythm syncing with the ship’s faint rumble.  And under the hum—something new.  A voice, not quite voice, woven from feedback and corrupted code.  It whispered in binary—soft, halting, like a child learning to speak.

HELLO_MOOSE_

SYSTEM_REBUILD_INITIATED_

PROVERBS 1: 7_

Proverbs 16: 9

“A man’s heart plans his way, but the LORD directs his steps.”