The Merchant and the Deep space karaoke

The destroyer and the frigate were already drifting out of the Maw's gravity field, slipping quietly through the stars, when the ping came.

Erie frowned at the console. “Contact.”

Vermond turned his head. “Hostile?”

“No... looks like a merchant signature.” Erie narrowed his eyes, then let out a low, confused laugh. “What the hell kind of name is that—DryUntilWet?”

Kiana, curled on the couch with a warm drink in hand, blinked once. She didn’t speak, just stared at the holoscreen, observing the oddly shaped ship approach. Its hull was bulky and scarred with trade marks, its antennas twitching like insect legs.

Renn's voice cracked through the comms. “Heh. That old ship’s still floating?”

“You know it?” Vermond asked.

“Oh yeah,” Renn said with a chuckle. “The DryUntilWet. She’s a wandering trade-battleship. Legitimate merchant business, but don’t ask where they get half their stock. They sell everything—parts, ammo, old AI chips, frozen steaks, even alien toothbrushes.”

Erie muttered, “That sounds... shady.”

“Exactly,” Renn said. “But they never pick fights. Just keep their guns big enough to discourage pirates.”

Vermond tilted his head slightly, thoughtful. “We need supplies for the space station.”

“Kiana.”

She looked up softly, cup still in hand.

“You okay if we stop?” he asked.

Kiana gave a small nod, her green eyes calm. “If big brother wants to, then I'm with you.” She sipped again. “I’ll stay here. Just watching.”

Erie leaned back, arms crossed. “I swear, your sister’s calmer than a sleeping star today.”

Vermond didn’t smile, but something flickered in his eyes. “That’s why she sees what others don’t.”

The undead destroyer turned, altering course gently, the frigate following beside. As they approached the massive merchant vessel, lights flickered on across its hull like the blinking signs of a night bazaar.

A message came through the channel, garbled but cheerful:

“Welcome to the DryUntilWet! Everything’s for sale except our engines. Come shop. Don’t touch the cat.”

Erie blinked. “...The cat?”

Renn sighed. “Don’t ask. Just don’t.”

Vermond rose from his seat, coat draping down like a shadow. “Let’s see what they’ve got.”

The docking clamps hissed as the airlocks connected. A low thud echoed through the destroyer’s hull, and the interior lights of the DryUntilWet flickered—dim, colorful, mismatched like a scrapyard carnival.

Vermond stepped through the airlock with Renn beside him, Erie at his back. The air smelled like old metal, fried circuits, and faint spice. Around them, vendors haggled in dozens of languages, alien and human alike. Strange items lined the stalls—glowing stones, jagged power cells, mechsuit arms stacked like bones.

Renn adjusted his coat. “Alright, let me talk first. They know me. If they think you’re another pirate lord, you’ll get nothing but marked crates and fake smiles.”

Vermond gave a nod, his eyes flicking over the moving crowd. “I just want materials. Steel. Frames. Power cores. Things we’ll need to rebuild.”

“Rebuild?” Renn said. “Ahh… the station plan.”

They approached the inner chambers—past dangling lights and humming drones—until they reached a thick bulkhead guarded by two robots with chainsaw arms that thankfully weren’t revving.

An old trader stepped out, cybernetic eyes glowing soft blue, one of them cracked. His grin was wide, knowing. “Renn. I thought you were dead.”

“Close,” Renn replied, laughing. “This one’s the reason I’m not.”

The merchant looked Vermond over—then paused as his gaze landed on the young man’s eyes. “You’ve got soulfire in you.”

“I’ve got plans,” Vermond answered.

That earned a chuckle. “Alright, let’s hear it.”

The conversation shifted into the merchant's private lounge—filled with cushions and a blinking fish tank with no fish. Vermond leaned forward, tone calm and commanding.

“I’m not here for one-time trades. I need a supplier. We’re reclaiming an old station, near a black hole. Big one. If we rebuild it, we’ll need structural plates, stabilizers, reactor housings. All kinds of goods.”

The merchant raised a brow. “And you want DryUntilWet to be your lifeline?”

“I want a link,” Vermond said. “You help us supply the rebuild. We give you docking rights, first trade privileges, and priority salvage claims in the outer sectors. You’ll have a safe harbor, protected by our fleet.”

The merchant leaned back, stroking his rusted chin. “Big promises.”

Renn cut in, sipping a mug someone had handed him. “He means every word. And he keeps them. You want in on something real? This is it.”

Silence hung—then the trader smiled. “You got a deal… Commander. But I’m keeping my cat.”

“Fine,” Vermond replied without missing a beat. “It doesn’t leave the ship.”

Outside, Erie was already checking the crates they'd loaded. “They’ve got good stuff. Even a few pre-Fed alloys.”

Vermond returned to the docking bay, eyes on the cargo being moved into their hold. It wasn’t just a trade—it was the first stone in something bigger.

Kiana’s voice came softly over the comms, quiet as ever.

“That ship… it’s strange. But useful.”

Vermond stood still, watching the bustling crew move under flickering lights.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Everything strange is useful eventually.”

The destroyer left the merchant battleship, the god‑tier frigate mirrored the change, shields dimming as both ships powered their warp drives.

Erie leaned forward in his seat, eyes gleaming. “Here we go! Next stop: Vella‑9.”

Vermond stood at the viewport, arms folded, watching the stars stretch into lines of light.

Kiana remained at her usual spot on the couch, silent and still, sipping her drink. Her eyes tracked the warp field pattern on the holo‑screen, noting slight fluctuations in the subspace matrix.

Old Man Renn’s voice crackled over the comms, calm and gravel‑toned.

“Jump complete. Course is locked—Vella‑9 will be in range in approximately two hours, fifteen minutes.”

Erie whooped, nearly spilling his snack. “Two hours! That’s practically a pit stop in the galaxy!”

Vermond didn’t react—just tapped a few commands, routing essential systems to standby and aligning the destroyer’s approach bays for docking.

Ruen, monitoring the frigate’s systems via shared feed, added,

“Station’s still blind on sensors. No deep‑scan echoes. It really has been dead a long time.”

Erie glanced at Kiana. “You good with a two‑hour wait? I could play holo‑chess with you.”

Kiana offered him a patient smile but made no move. Instead, she leaned forward slightly, eyes drifting back to Vermond’s silhouette.

Vermond spoke softly—almost as if to himself: “Use the time well. Get rest. Check equipment. Once we arrive, there’s no room for mistakes.”

Erie rolled his shoulders. “Got it, boss. I’ll test every plasma clip twice.”

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Renn chuckled. “And I’ll dust off the old station schematics. Vella‑9’s layout has changed since the quarantine—plenty of surprises.”

The warp field shimmered outside like an endless light show—hypnotic at first, then just... annoying.

Inside the destroyer, silence had turned into something worse: boredom.

Erie lay upside down on a chair, legs over the backrest, head dangling off the seat. “I swear this is the longest warp I’ve ever sat through. Kiana. Say something. Anything. Save me.”

Kiana sipped her drink calmly. “No.”

Erie groaned like he was dying. “Vermond, permission to detonate a small part of the cargo bay just to pass the time?”

Vermond, resting with his eyes closed and head on Kiana’s lap, replied without moving:

“Denied. Do it and I’ll feed you to the recycler.”

Erie stood dramatically, clutching his chest. “That’s it. I’m talking to the undead.”

He walked to one of the elite standing guard and stared at it. “You ever get bored? No? Thought so.”

He mimicked the undead’s blank stare. “Wow. So inspiring.”

Meanwhile, on the frigate, Renn was in the middle of a loud argument with a vending machine that refused to give him his synth‑tea.

“You tin can parasite! I’ve bled for the Maw! You owe me!”

Ruen stood behind him, holding the exact same tea. “You could just ask me, sir.”

“Don’t ruin this. I’m fighting for my dignity.”

Back on the destroyer, Erie was now stacking crates into increasingly unstable towers. Kiana finally spoke.

“That one will fall in 3... 2…”

CRASH!

“…1,” she finished.

Vermond opened one eye. “Clean it.”

“Fine,” Erie muttered, brushing himself off. “When we get to Vella-9, I’m looting the cleanest room for myself out of pure revenge.”

Kiana looked at Vermond and whispered, “Can we leave him on the station?”

“Tempting,” Vermond murmured, smirking.

They continued warping through space in silence again… until Erie found the karaoke module.

Vermond immediately sat up.

“No.”

Kiana: “Please, no.”

Erie: “Too late! Time to serenade the void!”

The lights dimmed in the destroyer’s lounge, not because someone intended it—but because the ancient karaoke module Erie activated hadn’t been calibrated since the last war. It flickered once, groaned like a dying fridge, then projected neon text into the air:

"Welcome to STAR-SCREAM KARAOKE MODE."

Erie grabbed the mic with the confidence of a man who had no business doing so.

Vermond, still on Kiana’s lap, groaned. “Erie—don’t.”

Kiana didn’t even look. “I’ll turn off my ears.”

Erie grinned. “Too late. Song’s queued.”

The music began—a dramatic space ballad titled “Jetstream Love”. Erie belted the first verse with the enthusiasm of a space walrus being stepped on.

“WAAAAALKING THROUGH THE STAAAAARS—”

Kiana visibly flinched. “Make it stop…”

Vermond covered one ear with a cold expression. “We’ve fought war beasts quieter than this.”

But Erie… didn’t stop. He stumbled through the chorus with a cracked voice and unnatural passion, dancing like the floor was electrified.

And then…

Something shifted.

The second verse hit—and Erie’s voice changed. It smoothed out. Hit the pitch. Soared.

Vermond’s eyes opened halfway. “…What?”

Kiana paused mid-sip, eyes widening.

Erie sang like he was born on a planet of golden microphones. The high notes shimmered. The low notes melted. His voice echoed like a ghost who made peace with its past.

By the bridge, even the undead seemed to stand straighter—one elite tapping its foot.

Kiana whispered, stunned, “Big brother, I—I think I’m crying a little.”

Vermond slowly sat up. “That’s… actually good.”

Erie ended the song with a perfect, echoing note, striking a pose as the module shouted:

“PERFORMANCE RATING: COSMIC.”

Panting, Erie looked at them, sweat glistening on his forehead.

“So? Worth the trauma?”

Kiana blinked. “…I forgive everything you’ve ever done.”

Vermond just stood and walked past him, muttering,

“If you sing like that again, I’ll consider giving you a room upgrade.”

Erie grinned, wiping fake tears.

“I knew my arc would come!”

One of the undead handed him a towel.

Erie bowed dramatically. “To my fans. All… one and a half of you.”

The lounge fell silent.

Kiana slowly stood, silent as ever, then walked up to the mic Erie left behind. She didn’t say a word. Just tapped the mic once. Looked at her brother. Then at Erie.

The karaoke module blinked. The title appeared:

“Starlight Brother” — Original Composition.

Soft music drifted in—gentle piano, ghostlike strings, the hum of distant stars.

Then Kiana sang, her voice soft and steady:

“He walks through the dark, never looking back,

Eyes full of fire, heart full of cracks.

But I see the light, beneath all that weight,

The boy who once waited outside Heaven’s gate.”

“He calls the dead, but forgets how to cry,

Fights with shadows ‘neath a hollow sky.

But even when silence is all he can give,

I’ll stay by his side, remind him to live.”

(Chorus)

“So I’ll sing to the stars, let the echoes fly free,

Tell the whole void what you mean to me.

Big brother, you carry the dark like a crown,

But I’m here to lift it—whenever you drown.”

Erie blinked fast. “W-Why is this hitting so hard?”

Vermond froze. His eyes softened—just a bit.

Kiana’s voice didn’t waver. Her green eyes glowed under the dim light. She smiled slightly.

“Through wrecks and ruins, through death and fear,

You always looked back—just to check I was near.

You never said much, but I always knew,

Every step you took… you took it for two.”

(Final Chorus)

“So I’ll sing to the void, so it knows your name,

The one who walked through every flame.

Big brother, this is your melody—

A song for the soul only I get to see.”

The final note lingered in the air like stardust.

Kiana calmly handed the mic back and sat down on the couch again, sipping her drink as if nothing happened.

Vermond looked away, jaw tight. Erie coughed once. “I—I’m not crying. You’re crying.”

Kiana smiled faintly and whispered, “I win.”

Even the undead seemed to pause—maybe out of respect. Maybe because they felt something stir deep inside whatever they had left.

And somewhere in the silence… the stars kept moving.

The mic sat there.

Unclaimed.

Awkwardly glowing.

Vermond stared at it like it had insulted his ancestors. Kiana raised an eyebrow, still sipping her drink. Erie leaned forward, grinning. “Well? Gonna let your little sister show you up like that?”

Vermond sighed. “Fine.”

He stood.

Erie’s grin widened. “This is gonna be gold.”

Vermond took the mic like he was about to declare war. The karaoke console beeped as he typed something in manually.

Song Title: “Bone to Be Wild”

The intro kicked in—an absurd mix of heavy synths, off-key horns, and undead screaming in the background.

He began.

“Yeah, I’m the guy who raises the dead,

No sleep, no rest, no dreams in my head.

Got a skull in my pocket, and a bone for luck,

Don’t cross me, or you’re soul-outta-luck!”

(Bizarre guitar solo, mostly off-beat)

“Ridin' on my doomship, powered by fear,

Undead on deck say ‘Yes, Necromancer, dear.’”

But deep down, I just want some peace…

Or at least a snack that ain’t expired grease.”

Kiana blinked slowly.

Erie started wheezing.

Vermond launched into a ridiculous half-dance, spinning once while holding a bone-shaped prop he somehow summoned just for effect.

“I’m bone to be wild, yeah, bone to the core—

Fed up with drama, give me space décor.

I got skulls on my socks and angst in my veins,

But I’d trade it all for not feeling insane!”

As the final beat dropped (with a shriek from an undead saxophone), Vermond dramatically dropped to one knee, striking a hero pose.

Silence.

Then Erie exploded with laughter, collapsing against the wall. “I—I can’t—I’m—he said space décor—!!”

Kiana just blinked. “Big brother is the best,” she said gently, smiling.

Vermond stood up like nothing happened, handing back the mic. “I don’t see what’s funny.”

Erie wiped his eyes. “Bro. That was a war crime.”

“Exactly.”

Even one of the elite undead clapped once, then stopped as if unsure if it was allowed.

Warp travel boredom had officially peaked.

Erie, still wiping tears from Vermond's cursed performance, stepped up with the confidence of a rockstar and the awareness of a dead toaster.

“I got this. I’ll fix the mood.”

He dramatically slammed his palm on the console.

BEEP.

The screen flickered.

Song selected: “Why Am I Ugly” — Emotional Acoustic Version

A sad guitar started plucking. A single crow cawed in the background.

Erie blinked. “Wait what—?”

Too late. The mic lit red.

The lights dimmed.

And the first line was already on screen.

“Why am I ugly?

Why does my mirror cry?

Every time I say ‘good morning,’

My reflection just says ‘why?’”

“My hair looks like noodles,

My smile’s kinda bent,

Even my own shadow

Tried to pay rent…”

Vermond choked on his drink.

Kiana was frozen, mid-sip, staring at Erie with wide eyes.

But Erie had committed.

“They say beauty’s on the inside,

Well, mine must be on break—

‘Cause even my pillow

Moves when I'm awake.”

“I asked my toaster,

‘Am I cute today?’

It ejected my bread

And just flew away…”

He paused, hand on chest, voice shaky.

“Why… am I ugly?

Why do cats hiss near me?

Even the undead flinch a little…

And they don’t breathe to flee.”

Vermond was wheezing, face red, barely able to stay seated.

One elite undead quietly walked out of the room.

Kiana covered her mouth, politely stifling a laugh… but her eyes were sparkling.

Erie held the final note dramatically.

“Uglyyyy—

But emotionally staaaableeee—

(Just kidding I’m not).”

Silence.

Then Vermond clapped once. “Masterpiece.”

Kiana giggled behind her hand. “You pressed the wrong song, didn’t you?”

Erie dropped the mic. “I did… but I think it was the right choice.”

One undead somewhere sobbed.

Vermond wiped a tear from the corner of his eye—whether from laughter or secondhand embarrassment, no one could tell. Then he looked at the nearest elite undead standing stiff near the door and muttered, half-joking:

“…What if one of them sang?”

Erie raised a brow. “No way.”

Kiana tilted her head. “They can… sing?”

The elite undead turned its head slowly toward Vermond. Silent. Expressionless. Its white glowing eyes blinked once.

Then it stepped forward.

Took the mic.

Everyone stared.

Static filled the room.

Then—

“BEEEEEP... SYSTEM INITIALIZING KARAOKE MODE...”

Erie leaned in. “What’s it gonna pick?”

BEEP. Song Selected: “LOVE IN THE VENTS” – Undead Edition

Genre: Robotic R&B**

The music began. A slow, sensual beat with occasional clank and buzz sounds.

The undead stood stiff, mic in hand… and then:

“I smell rust and sorrow—

In the ducts above your room…

You ignored my crawling sounds…

But my heart still goes vroom…”

Erie’s jaw dropped. “WHAT.”

“You said, ‘Go back to the grave,’

But girl, I just respawned—

Your love’s the firmware update

That I’ve always longed…”

Vermond was speechless. Kiana had curled up into the couch, laughing into her sleeve.

“Let me haunt your dreams,

Slide into your vents—

Even if I creak like broken springs,

My love is 110 percent.”

Sparks fell from the ceiling. Another undead from the hall peeked in, holding a lighter.

Erie nearly fell over laughing. “This is the best day of my life.”

“Undead I may be,

But babe, I’m still warm—

'Cause love burns hotter

Than any plasma storm.”

As the final beat dropped, the undead spun in place awkwardly and posed with the mic, one arm raised like a broken antenna.

The room was silent.

Then:

Vermond: “...Promotion. Immediate promotion.”

Erie: “I need to lie down.”

Kiana: softly clapping “Encore.”

And just like that, undead karaoke night became a problem.

Meanwhile, abroad the god-tier frigate.

The lights dimmed for a second. A low hum vibrated through the walls as the warp tunnel flickered out around them.

Ruen squinted at the console. “Uhh… Renn? We got something weird here. Comms just glitched. Real quick—like someone breathing into the channel.”

Renn, unfazed, calmly sipped from his dented tin cup. “Eh. That’s probably just the Maw still hangin' on us. Ghost signals happen all the time.”

The comms sparked again—shhkkt—a distorted voice whispered something unintelligible, then cut out.

Then—

BOOM.

Space snapped into clarity outside the viewport. Warp travel ceased. Stars steadied. The noise was gone.

Ruen blinked. “We out?”

Renn cracked his neck, stepped up to the window, and smiled faintly.

“Welcome,” he said, voice rich with nostalgia, “to the station.”

Before them loomed a massive, ancient structure—floating like a ghost near the edge of a glimmering black hole’s event horizon. Rusted, scarred, covered in old trade banners and flickering lights. Enormous docking rings spun slowly, some barely holding together.

Ruen: “...That thing looks like it’s gonna fall apart.”

Renn, proudly: “And yet it hasn’t for the last forty years. Beauty, ain’t it?”

The frigate slowly cruised closer, its systems adjusting, lights steady again.

Back in the destroyer, the party was still recovering from undead karaoke. But now?

It was time to get serious again. A new chapter, a new station—waiting to be reclaimed.