“They outlawed those,” he whispered. “The Guild said they were unstable. That they could… imprint.”
The woman’s eyes met his. They were old. Older than her face. “The Guild wanted to sell you disposable parts every six months. A crilock, if you treat it right, will last a hundred years. It becomes part of the ship. It remembers every journey, every strain, every whisper of the stars you’ve flown through.” crilock
The last light of the twin sun bled across the salt flats, turning the world the color of rusted iron. Kaelen wiped a smear of grease from his forehead, leaving a dark streak on his pale skin. Beneath him, the guts of the Morrow’s Hope lay exposed—a tangle of coolant lines, cracked conduits, and the dense, humming core that kept the old hauler alive. “They outlawed those,” he whispered