Chapter 3: Docked… Recon...

Proverbs 13: 3

“He who guards his mouth preserves his life, bu the who opens wide his lips shall have destruction.”

Moose steps onto the bridge, the scent of hot coffee rolling in with him.

The mug in his hand—a smooth cream color cinched at the middle—rests easy in his grip, a steady anchor in the quiet hum of  the ship.  The bridge is compact, but built for purpose: three stations, three hearts keeping the ship alive.  Art-bot’s corner glows soft and golden, her workspace alive with neatly arranged art supplies, brushes tucked like soldiers beside glowing terminals and floating holograms—every inch of it efficient, inspired.

Q-bot’s station hums with data—her world of communication and science—while Moose’s helm sits front and center, a command of levers, switches, and keys, all braced around a standing desk scarred with use.  The space in the middle is his—Moose’s orbit—a stack of five Bibles resting beside two spiral notebooks, two pens laid precisely at their stop, ready for another day of thought and flight.

Art-bot looks up from her work, her cyan optics warm and bright.

“Good morning, Captain!”

Q-bot turns sharply, her mechanical arms sliding out from their housings in perfect precision, tools catching the bridge light in silver arcs.  She raises a palm upward, and a soft holographic shimmer blooms above it, glowing in clean blue letters:

READY.

Moose raises his cup in one hand and gives a small, deliberate salute with the other.  The brim of his black driver’s cap dips low as he nods toward the two bots.

“Good morning, Miss Art-bot,” he says.  Then he turns slightly, his eyes catching the glint of Q-bot’s cyan optics.  “And good morning, Miss Q-bot.”

The words hang in the warm air of the bridge for a moment — a ritual more than a greeting.  Art-bot beams, a polite smile lighting the soft gold of her faceplates, her servos humming lightly as she straightens her posture.  Q-bot, half her height, snaps to attention with mechanical precision, her tools folding neatly back into their housings, the blue hologram over her palm flickering bright in approval.  For a heartbeat, the hum of the CS01 fills the silence.  The ship feels alive, listening.  Moose exhales, the steam from his coffee curling like breath into the golden light.

Moose lowers his cup.  “It looks like we’re going to be here for the foreseeable future, Art-bot.”  The bridge hums low around him.  Soft lights drift across the consoles, gold and blue reflections gliding over metal and glass like ripples on still water.  Art-bot tilts her head slightly, her expression patient, kind.  The cyan seams along her frame pulse once, then steady.

“As you say, Captain,” she replies, her voice smooth as brushed brass, carrying no complaint—just quiet readiness.

Moose nods, eyes distant but steady, watching the slow turn of starlight beyond the viewport.  “Then we know what Paul teaches.  We are to redeem the time.  Q-bot, ready to do list.  Art-bot, pull up some maps of the station.  We need some recon.”

He sets the mug down beside his stack of Bibles, thumb tracing the worn cover of the one on top. The moment stretches—warm, reverent, alive with the hum of purpose.

Psalm 111: 2

“The Works of the LORD are great, studied by all who have pleasure in them.”