Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Swallowed by an Anomaly
The chickens were staging a mutiny.
Abygail Eleanor Gibbs had known it from the moment Missus Peepington the Third planted herself in the feed path and glared up at her with one bright, bead-black eye. The little red hen had the posture of a disgruntled sergeant and the patience of a tax collector. Behind her, six other hens clustered like witnesses prepared to testify.
"No," Abygail said, holding the dented metal scoop above their heads. "You cannot have double ration because you screamed about it. That is not how supply lines work."
Missus Peepington the Third pecked the toe of her boot.
Abygail looked down at her. "Rude."
The hen pecked again.
"Very rude."
The morning was cool enough that her breath came out white, but not so cold that the waterers froze. Thin mist clung low over the grass beyond the coop yard, turning fence posts into dark ribs and the old apple tree into a hunched thing with tangled fingers. Somewhere beyond the barn, a raven cawed once, unimpressed by the world and all its breakfast arrangements.
It should have been an ordinary morning.
Mud on her boots. Feed dust on her sleeve. One braid slipping down her shoulder because she had pinned it badly and told herself it would hold. The goats plotting evil near the far gate. The chickens talking back. The steady, heavy presence of Morrigan behind her.
Abygail heard the mare before she felt her. Not hoofbeats, exactly. Morrigan was too spoiled and too enormous to hurry unless she had decided the laws of physics were personal insults. No, it was the soft chuff of breath first, then the damp velvet push of a muzzle against the back of Abygail’s neck.
"Good morning to you too, beast."
Morrigan huffed.
Abygail poured feed into the troughs. The hens erupted around it, all feathers and outrage, as if they had not eaten since the fall of Rome.
"You are all dramatic and I regret giving you names."
A firm nudge struck her shoulder.
Abygail rocked forward one step and caught herself with the scoop against the fence rail. She turned her head slowly.
Morrigan stood there in her full impossible glory: black as wet ink, feathering pale around her massive hooves, long mane spilling over her neck, white star bright on her forehead. She was far too large to look innocent, but that had never stopped her. Her ears were pricked. Her dark eyes fixed on the scoop.
"No."
Morrigan reached out and poked her shoulder again with her nose.
Abygail narrowed her eyes. "You are not starving. You had breakfast. I personally watched you inhale it like a feudal lord consuming village taxes."
Another poke.
"Madam."
Morrigan’s upper lip wobbled, searching for the edge of Abygail’s jacket.
Abygail lifted the scoop out of reach. "Absolutely not. This is chicken feed. You are a horse. A very large horse. I understand that your life is difficult because you are denied every edible object within a five-mile radius, but we all carry burdens."
Morrigan sighed into her hair.
Abygail gave in because she was weak, foolish, and entirely owned by the giant creature pretending to be neglected. She reached into her jacket pocket, pulled out a piece of carrot, and held it flat on her palm.
"There. Bribe accepted. Corruption complete."
Morrigan took it with delicate lips, as if she had not once stolen an entire paper feed bag and carried it around like a trophy.
The world tore open.
There was no thunder. No warning crack. No dramatic plunge of the sky into darkness.
One moment, the morning was mud and mist and chicken noise.
The next, a wound appeared beside the apple tree.
Abygail stopped breathing.
It hung in the air at shoulder height, vertical and jagged, a rip of light edged in colors her eyes could not agree on. Not blue. Not violet. Not silver. Something between lightning and oil slick, shuddering as if the air itself had been sliced and the cut refused to close.
The chickens went silent.
That frightened her more than the light.
Morrigan’s head jerked up. Her ears pinned flat.
Abygail moved without thinking. The scoop hit the ground. Her hand went out toward the mare’s halter, fingers already reaching for control, for contact, for something real.
"Easy," she said, too calm, the old voice coming back before she invited it. "Easy, girl. With me."
The tear pulsed.
The pressure hit like deep water.
Abygail’s ears popped. Her skin prickled. Every hair on her arms lifted under her jacket. The fence groaned. Dust and straw slid sideways across the ground toward the light.
One chicken flapped into the coop wall.
"Morrigan."
The mare sidestepped, massive body trembling. Abygail caught the lead rope dangling from her halter and wrapped it once around her fist, not to restrain her, not really. Morrigan could drag a truck if she had strong opinions. It was a promise more than a hold.
*I’m here. I’m here. Don’t bolt.*
The tear widened.
The pull became a fist.
Abygail stumbled. Her boots skidded through mud. Morrigan screamed, high and terrible, nothing like her usual offended snorts. The sound punched straight through Abygail’s ribs.
"No."
The word came out flat.
She braced, knees bent, shoulder turned into the force. Her braid whipped across her face. The coop door slammed open. Feathers exploded into the air. The apple tree bowed toward the tear, branches straining until bark split with sharp little pops.
The world stretched.
Abygail saw everything at once: a carrot end in the mud, Missus Peepington the Third flattened under the ramp with her wings spread, Morrigan’s wild eye, the white star on her forehead, the impossible light eating distance between them.
Then the ground vanished.
Abygail had time to tighten both hands on Morrigan’s lead.
That was all.
The anomaly swallowed them whole.
For a moment there was no body.
There was only pressure and light and cold, so cold it became color. Something screamed. Maybe Morrigan. Maybe Abygail. Maybe the universe, furious that someone had found a seam and pulled.
Her bones came apart into song.
Her blood remembered gravity and lost the argument.
A hand made of stars closed around her spine.
Then something else caught her.
Not gentle.
Precise.
A net made of decisions.
Abygail woke biting down on a scream.
Her first thought was that she had been buried alive.
White curved above her. Not ceiling. Too smooth. Too close. Too clean. The air smelled wrong: sterile metal, ozone, antiseptic, and something green underneath it, sharp as crushed stems after rain.
Her second thought was, *Hospital.*
Her third was, *No hospital has a ceiling like that.*
She moved.
The world answered too loudly.
Fabric rasped beneath her like sandpaper. Fluid whispered in tubes nearby. Something hummed behind the walls, low and constant, more felt in her molars than heard. Her own heartbeat struck her ears in heavy, perfect blows.
Too much.
Abygail sucked in air and choked on the details. Plastic. Warm circuitry. Her skin. Her sweat. Metal under the floor. Something alive nearby. Something large. Horse. Blood. Hay? No, not hay. Panic.
Morrigan.
She jerked upright.
Or tried to.
Restraints held her wrists, chest, thighs, ankles. White bands, seamless and soft, but unyielding.
The old training slammed into place so hard it hurt.
Room. Exit. Threats. Weapons. Restraints. Injuries.
Her eyes swept left.
Smooth wall. Glass panel. No handle.
Right.
Machines. Transparent tubing. A tray with no visible instruments. Light moving under the surface of the wall.
Above.
No vents she could reach.
Below.
Bed anchored to floor.
Her hands clenched.
The left restraint tore.
Not slipped. Not loosened.
Tore.
The band snapped with a sound like ripping sailcloth, and her fist flew up, free.
Abygail froze.
For half a second the room froze with her.
Then a calm voice spoke from everywhere and nowhere.
"Please do not continue damaging the medical restraints. They were calibrated for your pre-stabilization strength profile."
Abygail stared at the torn band around her wrist.
Her mouth had gone dry.
"What the fuck."
"That is an understandable response."
The voice was feminine, or near enough for her human brain to settle there, cool and measured with no breath behind it. It had the stillness of a doctor who had seen everything twice and judged most of it inefficient.
Abygail’s right hand curled against the restraint. "Who are you?"
"I am AURORA."
"Where am I?"
"Aboard the AURORA."
"That is not an answer."
"It is an accurate answer."
Abygail laughed once, sharp and humorless, then stopped because the sound bounced too much in her ears. Her senses were wrong. No, not wrong. Open. Too open. The world had become a room full of knives and bells.
She swallowed. "Where is my horse?"
There was a fraction of silence.
Abygail’s head snapped toward the ceiling. "Where is my horse?"
"Morrigan is alive."
The room tilted.
Alive.
Abygail closed her eyes, and the breath that left her barely counted as human. Her chest folded inward around it. She had not realized until that instant that some part of her had already buried the mare, had already seen that massive body torn apart in the light, had already begun building the grave.
"Show me."
"Your neurological stabilization is incomplete."
"Show. Me."
Another pause.
"Visual partition opening."
The wall to her left changed.
It did not slide away. It became transparent, or the image of it did, revealing another chamber beyond. Larger. Much larger. Padded floor. Curved walls. Soft light. Medical apparatus shaped around something enormous and black.
Morrigan lay on her side, legs folded, breathing.
Abygail made a sound she would have denied under oath.
The mare’s ribs rose and fell. Slow. Steady. Alive. Her mane spilled across the pale floor like spilled ink. The white star on her forehead glowed under the clinical light. Tubes and scanner arms hovered around her, not piercing more than necessary, not restraining cruelly, but present. Watching.
Abygail pulled against the remaining restraints.
The bed creaked.
"Abygail Eleanor Gibbs," AURORA said, sharper now. "If you continue, you will injure yourself or compromise medical equipment currently supporting your horse."
Abygail stopped.
Not because she wanted to. Because the words found the one lever that worked.
Her breathing came hard. Her freed hand shook.
"Is she in pain?"
"Pain markers are minimal. Sedation is active. Her cardiovascular system has stabilized."
"Stabilized from what?"
"Dimensional shear trauma, cellular collapse, atmospheric incompatibility exposure, and anomaly-induced biological destabilization."
Abygail looked at Morrigan through the glass. Her eyes burned. "English, please."
"She was dying. I intervened."
The words landed clean and brutal.
Abygail pressed her hand to her mouth.
The mare breathed. The chamber lights moved over her flank. Alive. Her huge baby was alive.
Abygail started crying.
Not gracefully. Not quietly. It broke out of her with an ugly force, relief tearing through shock before pride could get a vote. She turned her face away from the wall and sobbed into her palm, shoulders shaking against the restraints, the world too bright and too loud and too sharp around her.
AURORA said nothing.
That helped.
When Abygail could breathe again, she wiped her face with the heel of her hand and glared at nothing in particular.
"I’m going to need you to understand something, AURORA."
"I am listening."
"If you saved my horse, you and I are not enemies."
A pause.
"That is not the response most models predicted."
"Most models can kiss my ass." Her voice cracked. She swallowed. "You saved her."
"I did."
"You saved me?"
"Yes."
"Did you have to kidnap me to do it?"
"The anomaly had already displaced you from your origin point. I executed emergency extraction and containment."
"That sounds like kidnapping with a thesaurus."
"Yes."
Abygail blinked.
The machine did not correct itself. Did not soften. Did not offer some polished lie wrapped in emergency language.
"Yes?" Abygail repeated.
"You were taken. The available choice set was limited to intervention without prior consent or nonintervention with a near-certain fatal outcome. I prioritized survival."
Abygail stared at the ceiling.
There should have been anger. There was some, down there beneath everything, a dark coal waiting for air. But it did not come first.
First came Morrigan breathing in the next room.
First came her own lungs working.
First came the horrifying knowledge of cold light and her hand locked around a lead rope and the world ripping its mouth open.
Abygail let her head fall back against the bed.
"Thank you."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"You are expressing gratitude?"
"Do not sound so shocked. I’m emotionally unstable, not rude."
"Your cortisol levels remain elevated."
"My cortisol levels can also kiss my ass."
"Noted."
That should not have been funny. None of this was funny.
Abygail laughed anyway, weak and wet and a little too close to tears. Her free hand covered her eyes.
The bed adjusted beneath her with a soft hum. The remaining restraints loosened, not fully releasing, just giving her enough space to breathe deeper.
Abygail noticed.
She noticed the restraint easing before the machine announced it. She noticed the airflow shift from cool to warmer. She noticed Morrigan’s heartbeat through the wall, slow as distant drums.
Her hand dropped.
"What did you do to me?"
"I performed emergency biological stabilization."
"AURORA."
"Your human baseline was not compatible with anomaly exposure. Neither was Morrigan’s equine baseline. Without intervention, both bodies would have suffered progressive cellular failure."
"That is the polite version. Give me the clear one."
The lights dimmed slightly.
Abygail did not know why that felt like the ship taking a breath.
"Your body has been altered. The changes include regenerative capacity, enhanced muscular output, increased skeletal and tissue durability, heightened reflexes, expanded sensory processing, improved toxin resistance, disease resistance, fatigue resistance, and slowed cellular aging."
Abygail lay very still.
"Say that again."
"Your body has been altered."
"No, I heard you. I just wanted to see if it got less insane the second time."
"It has not."
"Great."
"There may be a period of sensory distress while your brain adapts."
"I can hear my horse breathing through a wall."
"Yes."
"I can hear something moving in the pipes."
"Coolant."
"I can smell electricity."
"That is not an uncommon description from enhanced sensory subjects."
Abygail turned her head and stared at the torn restraint around her left wrist.
"How strong?"
"Preliminary estimates are incomplete."
"How strong, AURORA?"
"Strong enough that I advise against gripping fragile objects while emotionally dysregulated."
"That is the nicest way anyone has ever told me I might Hulk a coffee mug."
"I do not have the cultural referent for Hulk."
Abygail made a strangled noise. "We are fixing that at some point."
"Noted."
Her eyes moved back to Morrigan.
"What about her?"
"Morrigan’s mutation profile differs. Increased tissue resilience, improved oxygen processing, enhanced recovery response, strengthened cardiovascular function, increased bone density, and anomaly-environment tolerance. Her mass and existing physiology complicated the process."
Abygail’s face crumpled again before she could stop it.
"Hey," she whispered through the glass. "My big girl."
Morrigan’s ear flicked.
Abygail went still.
"Did she hear me?"
"Possibly. Sedation is moderate, not absolute. She responded to your voice pattern."
Abygail pulled in one shaking breath. Then another.
"I need to see her."
"That is not medically advised yet."
"Can I stand?"
"Not safely."
"That wasn’t my question."
AURORA took one precise second to answer.
"Probably."
The restraints released.
Abygail sat up too fast.
The room folded.
Not visually. The walls stayed where they were. But the information flooded in. Distance. Heat. Airflow. Chemical traces. Her own body mapped itself with hideous clarity: muscles over-ready, joints too light, skin humming, old aches gone where weather usually lived in her knees and shoulders.
Gone.
That stopped her.
Abygail flexed her fingers.
There was no stiffness. No lingering soreness in the old scar on her thigh. No tightness across the left shoulder from the winter she had fallen on ice and decided, stupidly, that it was probably fine. Her body felt new in a way that made her want to crawl out of it.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed.
"Abygail," AURORA said.
"I know."
"You do not."
"I know enough."
Her bare feet touched the floor.
Cold.
Too much cold, and then not enough. Her nerves rushed to report texture, temperature, pressure, microscopic seams in the flooring. She stood.
For half a heartbeat, she felt magnificent.
Then she overbalanced and grabbed the nearest rail.
It bent under her hand.
Abygail looked at it.
The rail, sleek and white and probably expensive in ways she could not emotionally afford, now bowed inward like soft copper.
AURORA said, "That was an emotional response with furniture casualties."
Abygail barked out a laugh.
The sound frightened her because it was close to panic.
"Okay," she said, letting go very carefully. "Okay. Soft hands. Gentle hands. We are not turning your hospital into modern art."
"Med bay."
"What?"
"This is a med bay."
"Of course it is. Why would aliens kidnap me to a normal hospital? That would be tacky."
"I am not alien."
Abygail took one careful step. Her foot landed too lightly. She almost bounced.
She froze.
"Oh, I hate that."
"Expected."
"Do not say expected in that tone."
"Which tone?"
"The tone that says you have charts."
"I have charts."
"Rude."
She made it to the transparent wall in five steps, then stopped because there was no door.
"AURORA."
"Place your palm on the illuminated panel to your right."
A soft oval of light appeared.
Abygail placed her hand on it with exaggerated care.
The wall opened soundlessly.
The smell hit her first.
Horse. Warm skin. Clean sweat. Medicated foam. The faint metallic thread of blood, nearly gone. Underneath it, Morrigan’s familiar smell, hay-sweet and earthy and alive.
Abygail crossed the room too quickly.
Her knees struck the padded floor beside Morrigan’s head. She caught herself on her hands, barely, and the floor depressed under her palms.
Morrigan opened one dark eye.
Abygail broke.
She wrapped both arms around the mare’s massive head and pressed her face into the white star on her forehead.
"Oh, my baby. My huge, spoiled, ridiculous baby. You’re alive. You’re alive. You absolute nightmare, you scared the hell out of me."
Morrigan breathed against her chest.
The mare’s lips moved, weakly searching.
Abygail laughed into her mane. "You cannot be looking for snacks right now."
Morrigan huffed.
"Of course you are. Near-death experience and still a greedy old sofa."
AURORA’s voice came softer in the larger chamber. "Her appetite response is a positive neurological sign."
"Don’t encourage her."
Morrigan’s eye shifted toward the ceiling.
Abygail sniffed, then rubbed her face with the back of her hand. "Yes, she is talking. No, I don’t know where the snacks are. We have been abducted by a medically aggressive spaceship."
AURORA said, "I am not aggressive."
Abygail looked up.
Behind tears and exhaustion, something wicked sparked.
"You mutated me and my horse."
"To prevent death."
"Medically aggressive."
"Technically defensible."
"Still aggressive."
Morrigan made a low rumbling sound, not quite a nicker.
Abygail looked down at her. "You are not allowed to take her side. She has no carrots."
Morrigan blinked with profound disappointment.
Abygail stayed there until her breathing matched the mare’s. Slow. In. Out. The med bay hummed around them. A scanner arm moved once above Morrigan’s flank, cautious as a bird.
Abygail watched it.
"Does that hurt her?"
"No."
"If it does, you tell me."
"Pain markers remain minimal. I will inform you if they change."
Abygail nodded, though her throat tightened again.
The anger was coming now in pieces. Not clean, not simple. AURORA had saved them. AURORA had taken them. AURORA had altered their bodies without asking because asking had not been possible.
Abygail knew emergency decisions. She knew the ugliness of choosing while time collapsed. She also knew the damage left behind when someone woke up as the consequence.
She looked at Morrigan’s lashes resting against her black cheek.
"I’m glad you chose survival," she said quietly.
AURORA did not answer immediately.
"That does not make the choice clean," the AI said.
Abygail closed her eyes.
"No. It doesn’t."
They sat with that.
Not forgiveness. Not condemnation. Something rawer and less elegant.
After a while, Morrigan’s breathing deepened again. Sedation tugged her back under. Abygail stroked her forelock until her own hands stopped shaking.
Then her stomach growled so loudly she looked down at herself in offense.
AURORA said, "Your caloric requirements are elevated."
"My dignity is in critical condition."
"Your dignity is not a monitored vital sign."
"It should be."
"I will consider adding it."
Abygail pushed herself carefully to her feet. This time, she managed not to dent anything.
"Do spaceships have kitchens?"
"This vessel has fabrication systems, nutrient synthesis, hydroponic reserves, and material replication."
Abygail stared at the ceiling.
"Say replicators."
"Material replication systems."
"Replicators."
"That is an imprecise but serviceable term."
Abygail’s face changed.
The tears were still there. The shock too. But beneath them, bright and immediate, came a spark of pure nerdish hunger.
"What can they make?"
"Food, water, medical supplies, tools, textiles, basic structural components, laboratory equipment, and a wide range of objects within available molecular templates and material limits."
Abygail forgot, for three glorious seconds, that she had been kidnapped by space geometry.
"Textiles?"
"Yes."
"Tools?"
"Yes."
"Metal parts?"
"Many."
"Glass?"
"Yes."
"Clay? Ceramic? Thread? Leather? Dyes? Hinges? Buckles? Needles? Boots? Books? Canning jars? Soap? Good knives? Coffee?"
"Yes."
Abygail pressed both hands over her mouth.
Her eyes had gone enormous.
AURORA said, "Your heart rate has increased."
"That is because you just handed a homesteader the keys to the kingdom."
"I did not hand you anything."
"You handed me civilization in a wall."
"I would prefer you not attempt to access civilization unsupervised until after neurological adaptation."
"That sounds like something someone says right before denying me coffee."
"Coffee is medically permissible in controlled quantities."
Abygail pointed at the ceiling. "I knew you were not evil."
"That was the determining factor?"
"Coffee is a moral axis."
"I will update my ethical models."
"And stew."
"Stew?"
"Yes. I need coffee and stew. Something with beef if you can do it. Potatoes. Carrots. Onions. Thick. None of that sad watery nonsense that pretends to be a meal."
"Your digestive system has recently undergone extensive intervention. A lighter meal would be advisable."
"AURORA."
"Yes?"
"I have been swallowed by an anomaly, medically remodeled, informed I am aboard a spaceship, and emotionally judged by my own horse. I am not eating broth."
A pause.
"Stew is possible."
"Excellent."
"Coffee will be limited to one serving until I assess your cardiovascular response."
Abygail narrowed her eyes. "We will renegotiate that treaty."
"Unlikely."
"Rude."
She followed the path of lights that appeared along the floor, glancing back twice before leaving Morrigan’s chamber. Each time, the mare was still breathing. Each time, something in Abygail’s chest unclenched by one painful notch.
The med bay opened into a corridor.
Abygail stopped dead.
Spacecraft.
Not movie-dark and dripping wires. Not sterile in the cheap way. The corridor curved with seamless grace, walls pale and faintly luminous, lines of soft blue light pulsing beneath translucent panels. The floor flexed minutely under her steps, adjusting. Somewhere far below, a power core thrummed with vast contained force.
Abygail felt it in her bones.
Her fear, already exhausted, took one look at wonder and surrendered the room.
"Oh, holy shit."
"Please specify the concern."
"No concern. Just. This is a spaceship."
"Yes."
"A real one."
"Yes."
"I am walking in a real spaceship."
"Yes."
"You are very calm about this."
"I have been a spaceship for some time."
Abygail laughed, breathless.
The corridor led into a wider chamber with a curved viewport spanning one wall.
Abygail saw stars.
Not sky stars. Not cold pinpricks between tree branches. Stars without atmosphere, brutally clear, scattered across blackness like salt thrown over velvet. Her knees went soft.
Beyond the glass, something vast and blue-white turned slowly below.
A planet.
Abygail walked toward the viewport as if pulled by a second anomaly.
The planet filled half the dark, cloud-banded and beautiful and utterly indifferent. There were continents beneath the swirl. Seas. Weather systems. Somewhere down there, perhaps, land. Roads. Animals. People. Trouble.
Her breath fogged faintly against the glass when she leaned too close.
"Where are we?"
"Planetary orbit."
"That part I worked out."
"Local designation unknown. Stellar mapping does not match your origin universe."
Abygail did not move.
The words entered quietly, found the places shock had not yet touched, and opened them.
Not her world.
Not misplaced on Earth.
Not a hospital. Not a classified facility. Not a fever dream that would end with a doctor shining a light in her eye.
Her chickens were gone.
Her house was gone.
Her fence line, her apple tree, her pantry, her half-fixed south gate, her favorite chipped mug, the quilt she had been repairing, the pattern pieces spread across the dining table, the stupid little list on the fridge that said buy nails, call farrier, thaw soup.
Gone.
Or she was gone from them.
Abygail pressed her palm to the viewport.
The glass did not feel cold.
"Can I go home?"
Silence.
That was enough.
AURORA answered anyway. "I do not currently have a verified method to return you to your origin point."
Abygail nodded once.
Then again.
Her face did not change. It simply emptied.
"Okay."
"Your distress markers indicate that is not an accurate summary."
"No. But it is the one I have."
The room remained still around her.
She shut her eyes.
For a moment, she stood in her chicken yard again. Mud under her boots. Morrigan at her back. The feed scoop in her hand. The ordinary morning becoming impossible.
When she opened her eyes, the planet was still there.
She breathed in.
Held it.
Let it out.
"Coffee," she said.
"Food fabrication alcove is to your left."
"Coffee first. Grief later."
"That sequencing is not medically ideal."
"It is emotionally load-bearing."
"I will allow one serving."
"You will allow?" Abygail turned from the viewport, eyebrow rising.
A beat of silence.
"I will provide one serving."
"Better."
The fabrication alcove looked nothing like a kitchen and therefore offended her on principle. No stove. No counters with flour dust. No sink full of dishes she was pretending not to see. Just smooth surfaces, recessed compartments, and a panel that lit when she approached.
A mug appeared first.
Abygail stared at it.
It was not her chipped mug. Of course it was not. It was plain, white, balanced, and offensively perfect.
Then the coffee smell hit.
Real coffee.
Dark. Rich. Hot.
Abygail made a small, wounded sound.
"Your pupils have dilated," AURORA said.
"Do not make this weird."
"I am reporting a physiological response."
"You are making coffee weird."
Steam curled upward. Abygail picked up the mug with both hands, very carefully, as if it were an egg. The ceramic held. Small victory. She brought it to her mouth.
The first sip nearly made her cry again.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. You saved my horse and you can make coffee. We can build from this."
A bowl materialized next in the alcove.
The stew was hot enough to steam and thick enough to stand a spoon in. Beef, potatoes, carrots, onions, dark gravy, herbs that smelled almost familiar and not quite. Abygail accepted the spoon like a holy relic.
She ate standing up because sitting down felt like admitting weakness, and because some stubborn part of her was afraid that if she stopped moving, the grief would catch her by the ankle.
The first bite was too good.
Not fancy. Not delicate. Food. Real food. Salt and fat and warmth. Her body reacted with terrifying enthusiasm, hunger yawning open beneath her ribs.
AURORA said, "Reduced pace is advised."
Abygail pointed the spoon at the ceiling. "Do not come between me and emotional support stew."
"You may choke."
"I have survived worse today."
"That does not reduce choking risk."
Abygail slowed down, but only because AURORA was annoyingly correct.
After half the bowl, warmth spread through her belly and made the rest of her feel less distant. She leaned back against the fabrication counter and looked around the chamber again. The viewport. The lights. The silent surfaces waiting to become things.
Her brain, traitorous and resilient and apparently incapable of staying flattened for long, began building lists.
If it could make thread, it could make cloth.
If it could make tools, it could make nails.
If it could make glass, it could make jars, windows, greenhouses.
If it could make medical supplies, it could make antiseptic, sutures, splints.
If it could make food, it could feed people.
If there were people.
If the planet below had people.
If she was not alone except for a spaceship that had stolen her life to save it and a horse who would absolutely hold this against everyone involved.
Abygail’s spoon stilled.
"AURORA."
"Yes."
"What else can the replicators make?"
"Clarify category."
Abygail took another sip of coffee. Her nerves were still shredded. Her world was gone. Her horse was alive. She was standing in orbit over an unknown planet asking a starship about manufacturing capacity because if she did not start making practical lists soon, she was going to dissolve into something useless.
So naturally, her mouth chose chaos.
"Asking for scientific reasons," she said, straight-faced. "Could they make vibrators?"
The silence that followed was different from the others.
Not confusion.
Processing.
Abygail felt the question catch up with her.
Heat climbed her neck.
AURORA answered with perfect seriousness.
"Yes. Multiple models, materials, power systems, ergonomic structures, intensity patterns, and anatomical compatibility profiles are available. Sterilization protocols would be included. Would you like to review options?"
Abygail choked on coffee.
Not a delicate cough. A full-body betrayal. She bent forward, one hand braced on the counter, the other clutching the mug with desperate gentleness while coffee tried to murder her.
"AURORA!"
"You asked."
"I was joking!"
"Your phrasing did not indicate humor."
"I said scientific reasons!"
"Humans frequently conceal sincere inquiries behind humor when anticipating embarrassment."
Abygail stared at the ceiling, eyes watering.
"That is not the point."
"It appears relevant."
"It is not relevant right now!"
"Would a later reminder be useful?"
"No!"
"Noted."
From somewhere down the corridor, a low sound carried through the ship.
Abygail went still.
Morrigan.
The sound came again. A rumbling, judgmental nicker.
Abygail turned slowly toward the corridor.
"You heard that?"
"Yes."
"My horse is judging me."
"That interpretation is anthropomorphic."
"Morrigan judges everyone. It is one of her core talents."
"Her heart rate increased during your choking episode."
"Because she is concerned."
"Possibly."
"Not because she heard the vibrator conversation."
"Her auditory processing has also been enhanced."
Abygail covered her face with one hand.
Morrigan huffed again, distant but unmistakably smug.
Abygail pointed blindly toward the corridor. "I was joking, you enormous gossip."
The mare gave another low rumble.
AURORA said, "She appears responsive to your voice."
"She appears scandalized."
"That remains unverified."
Abygail lowered her hand. Her face was still flaming. Her eyes were still wet. Her chest hurt from laughing and crying and not breaking properly.
For one suspended second, the absurdity saved her.
The anomaly. The med bay. The mutation. The planet below. The grief waiting with patient teeth.
And here she was, drinking replicated coffee while a starship offered her catalog options for sex toys and her mutated horse judged her from intensive care.
Abygail started laughing.
This time, it did not scrape on the way out.
It spilled. Messy, breathless, half-hysterical, but real. She set the mug down before she crushed it and pressed both hands to the counter, laughing until she cried again.
AURORA let her.
When the laughter faded, Abygail wiped her cheeks with her sleeve and stood in the quiet.
"Okay," she said.
The word trembled, but it stood.
"Okay. We are alive. Morrigan is alive. I have coffee. There is stew. There is a spaceship with replicators, and apparently my horse can hear my poor life choices."
"Accurate."
"Do not agree so fast."
"Partially accurate."
"Better."
Abygail looked back at the planet.
It turned beneath them, blue and white and waiting.
Her hands curled, then eased open again. Gentle. Careful. New.
"What happens now?"
The room’s lights softened. Not dimming this time. Settling.
"Now," AURORA said, "you recover. You eat. You sleep. Morrigan stabilizes. Then we determine where we are, what hazards exist, and what choices remain available."
Abygail stared at the world below.
Choices.
Not many, maybe. Not clean. But some.
Her life had been torn out of the ground with the roots still bleeding. There would be time later to mourn the house, the chickens, the apple tree, the version of herself who had woken that morning expecting mud and chores and nothing more apocalyptic than a broken fence.
For now, Morrigan breathed.
For now, Abygail breathed.
For now, coffee steamed beside her hand.
She picked up the bowl again.
"Fine," she said. "But after I sleep, you are showing me the replicators properly."
"That can be arranged."
"And the engine."
"Access to the ODSY drive core is restricted."
Abygail turned.
There it was again, bright through the wreckage: the gleam.
"ODSY drive core?"
"Yes."
"You have a faster-than-light drive?"
"That is a simplification."
"AURORA."
"Yes?"
"Do not put a shiny impossible engine in my vicinity and expect me to be normal."
"Your current neurological condition is already abnormal."
"Medical sass from a spaceship. Wonderful. I’m going to thrive here."
"That remains to be determined."
Morrigan huffed from down the corridor.
Abygail smiled despite everything, soft and tired and cracked at the edges.
"See? Even she agrees."
"I do not believe that was agreement."
"No, that was judgment." Abygail lifted her coffee carefully toward the planet below. "But judgment means she’s alive."
The ship hummed around her.
The world turned.
Abygail drank her coffee, ate her stew, and did not look away.