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The ship’s dawn was never sunlight. It was a program, an algorithm written to trick circadian rhythms into thinking morning had arrived. The overhead panels shifted from deep red to washed-out amber, climbing toward the spectrum of a late Earth morning. The engineers who designed it had drawn from Antarctic overwinters and submarine deployments and Martian habitat trials, all to keep people from drifting too far out of sync with themselves. To Petey, it was still just light. It never felt like morning.
The first breath back was always wrong. A sharp inhale that felt like it hit frozen glass instead of air. His chest convulsed, coughing up the traces of perfluorocarbon that had been saturating his lungs for weeks. The fluid wasn’t harmful since it carried oxygen more efficiently than gas exchange, allowing the body to ride out hypothermic states, but that didn’t make it pleasant to clear. He coughed until his throat burned and his breathing cleared.
He shifted against the pod’s contours, every tendon singing with ache. Cryosleep wasn’t stasis, not the science fiction miracle of freezing a person and waking them up decades later like a photograph thawing. It was controlled stillness with metabolism throttled down, body temperature lowered to a few degrees above freezing, brain activity smothered under drugs. Alive in the slowest way possible.
The pod lid opened with a hiss. A curtain of condensation rolled across the floor, pale ribbons dissolving into the recycled air. Petey braced a hand against the polymer rim and forced himself upright. Every tendon groaned in protest. His heart remembered how to beat faster. His claws scraped faintly against the cradle as he pulled himself free, joints crackling with the weight of weeks spent in near stillness.
Across from him, Dog Man was already upright. His ears flicked sharply as though chasing away a phantom buzz, tail thudding once against the padded cradle. His breath came rough, muzzle damp from the remnants of fluid, but his frame looked steadier than Petey’s. He had always come out of cryo easier, maybe because his canine physiology tolerated the metabolic suppressants better. He met Petey’s eyes briefly, a look that said uncomfortable, but I’m fine.
The last to wake was Petey Jr. His smaller pod had stayed sealed until the adult cycles completed, ship’s safety protocol ensuring the juveniles weren’t left conscious without immediate oversight. The mist inside his chamber was thick when the lid unsealed. The boy stirred with sluggish movements, palm pressing weakly against the glass before it lifted. His thin chest lightly shook as a tube guided the fluid out, making sure that the young feline was as comfortable with the wake cycle as possible, before it pulled back into the wall of the chamber to be sterilized for next use.
Petey was at his side instantly, claws finding the release bar to help the lid angle up fully. He slipped an arm behind his son’s back, steadying him upright. The boy’s fur was damp, pupils sluggish, but the monitor at the foot of the pod scrolled green across every vital. Stable.
“You’re okay,” Petey rasped, his own voice raw. “Breathe it out. Just breathe.”
Petey Jr. sagged into his father’s side, coughing a boy as he got used to the transition from fluid to air. His chest rose fuller and his eyes got less tired and more aware. He was still shivering, but alive.
They gave themselves the allotted fifteen minutes. Squeezed packs of mostly bland electrolyte solution, stretching slow and careful to push circulation back through reluctant veins. Petey Jr. leaned against the wall, legs wobbling, copying the motions he saw. Petey gently gripped against the edge of his pod as he stretched , rolling his shoulders until tendons popped, bending forward until his ears brushed his knees. He looked steadier already, though even he blinked through the fog clinging at the edges of consciousness.
Dog Man braced against the cradle edge and began his stretching routine, rotating his shoulders until his joints popped audibly. He bent forward, ears brushing his knees, then straightened with deliberate slowness. His body had been engineered once, an experimental injection of mild myostatin inhibitors to slow down atrophy. Those alterations served him well now, since his muscles looked less wasted than Petey’s, his coordination sharper after only minutes awake.
Petey himself took longer. His calves cramped when he forced them to extend. His claws dug faint grooves into the floor panel as he rode it out, gritting teeth against the burn. He’d been through this rotation before and knew the pain would ease after movement. Still, each cycle made him wonder if he would ever feel whole again.
Petey Jr. mimicked them in miniature. His balance was wobbly, arms windmilling when his legs betrayed him, but determination shone through the glaze of cryo fog. Petey caught him once by the elbow and steadied him. The boy leaned into the touch with a grateful glance before setting his feet again.
The air in the cryo bay tasted too clean, scrubbed flat by lithium hydroxide canisters. Every breath reminded them they were alive, but not at home. Overhead, the air recyclers hummed softly, and somewhere deep in the vessel the reactor pumped warmth into the walls. The ship’s pulse had never stopped while they slept, but being awake made it audible again.
Medical checks were mandatory as they headed over to the diagnostics console mounted to the far wall. Dog Man’s claws tapped across the touchscreen, the glow spilling across his muzzle as the system scrolled down the names and vitals that showed up in front of them.
Petey scrolled through the roster, Dog Man standing close enough to catch the graphs with a glance. Petey Jr. pressed to his other side, his small eyes wide as he tried to follow the data even if he didn’t fully understand it.
Chief appeared first on the screen, his jagged mustache saturated with the ends swaying slightly. Heart rate a slow fifty beats per minute, just slightly irregular compared to baseline of the others but fell within safe parameters. Oxygen saturation steady at ninety-nine percent. Core temperature locked at four degrees Celsius, rewarming curve precise. EEG expectedly low, the quiet hum of artificial sedation holding brain function at the edge of dreamless stasis. “Commander’s stable,” Petey said under his breath.
Next was Sara. The comms officer’s data scrolled in pulses, respiration shallow but regular, blood pH balanced against the slight acidosis cryo always brought. Her potassium flagged slightly higher than baseline, but not alarmingly out of range. “She’ll be fine,” Petey murmured, logging the note for later and guiding Jr away from the light turquoise jacket hanging next to her pod.
Molly’s pod displayed its own set of metrics, showing electrolyte balance in the suspension fluid, osmotic pressure, and water quality all steady, while her small body floated slack within the medium. The EEG trace pulsed across the lower panel, waveforms layered more densely than human baselines, spiking briefly when Petey brushed the glass before settling back into rhythm, the system logging the fluctuation without alarm.
Big Jim’s vitals took longer to scroll, larger body mass needing deeper sedation curves. His muscle enzyme markers were elevated, faint evidence of atrophy, but nothing that couldn’t be reversed in a few hours once he was walking again and getting proper nutrition. Bone density scans held firm, strong enough to endure another cycle. His musculature had developed more since joining the roster of the expedition through the physicality of engineering after his incarceration.
Yolay, the unofficial therapist of the crew, closed the roster. Heart rhythm even, neural baseline steady, but hematocrit levels drifting slightly lower than baseline. A note flagged itself automatically, a reminder for some iron and b12 supplements along with a blood draw after her wake. Petey’s claws hovered on the screen a second longer before he logged the data. “Nothing too bad,” he said aloud as Jr peeked at the screen. “Just something to keep an eye on.”
The boy leaned closer, squinting at the scrolling lines. “All those numbers mean they’re okay?”
“They’re okay,” Petey answered. His hand brushed through his son’s damp hair, a gesture automatic and anchoring.
The boy nodded once, eyes fixed on the data though he didn’t yet understand its language. His small hand slid into Petey’s larger one, grounding himself.
The cryo bay was too large for only three awake souls. Rows of pods lined the walls like an audience in silent judgment, all glass lids and mist-shrouded figures inside. Breathing sounds too loud in the emptiness. Footsteps echoed against metal.
Dog Man tapped the console off, ears twitching once toward the row of pods. He didn’t sign much this early, his muscles still sluggish, but he lifted one hand and flexed his fingers in a brief phrase: Our turn now.
Petey understood. The rest of the crew were safe in their long dreams. Now it was the three of them who carried the weight of doing the rounds for upkeep.
They turned toward the corridor, steps heavy but growing steadier with each stride. The cryo bay sealed behind them with a final click, leaving six dreamers in their long suspension. Lights bloomed one by one as the trio walked, panels glowing to mark their passage. The ship seemed to stir with them, each system adjusting to their presence, each hum of pumps and fans a reminder that the vessel was alive.
They started with the air quality.
The environmental console glowed faint green in the dim corridor, one of the few panels that never powered down entirely. Its graphs pulsed quietly, a record of the invisible atmosphere filling their lungs. Petey pressed his claw against the screen and scrolled through the data, eyes sharp even though his body still felt like clay. Carbon dioxide scrubber performance held at ninety-eight percent, humidity balanced in the comfortable range, airflow pressure even through all compartments. The lithium hydroxide canisters were doing their job.
He leaned closer to study the trends, not just the moment. It was the slopes that mattered, the shifts over time, the telltale bends in a line that could mean scrubbers fouling or fans beginning to fail. Nothing spiked, nothing drifted. For now, their air was clean.
Petey Jr. had his chin almost on his father’s elbow, watching the screen as if it were a puzzle. His small finger traced the line of one of the graphs, following the shallow dip and rise.
“What’s that one?” he asked, voice still raspy from thaw.
Petey squinted at it. “Humidity balance. How much water is floating in the air.”
“Like when windows fog?”
“Exactly.” Petey glanced down, surprised. “You’ve been paying attention.”
The boy smiled faintly and leaned harder into him. Petey let him linger. Learning happened by osmosis, not lectures, and every small question meant something had taken root.
Dog Man handled water. His claws tapped across the touchscreen with quiet precision. Flow rates steady, filtration membranes clear, bacterial counts hovering close to zero. He adjusted one valve output by a fraction, then listened through the deck plates as the pumps responded with a steadier hum. The hybrid had always trusted sound and vibration as much as numbers. He braced one hand on the bulkhead, closed his eyes for a moment, then signed toward Petey without looking up. Good.
From there, they headed for hydroponics. The door sighed open and the air changed immediately. It was thicker here, heavier with moisture, carrying a faint vegetal smell that had no counterpart in the rest of the ship. Rows of plants stretched out under white LED strips, not lush gardens but narrow stalks and trays of algae tanks. This was utility, not luxury. Lettuce, kale, soy, a handful of dwarf tomatoes grown mostly for morale. Spirulina tanks bubbled faintly, green slurry catching the light like liquid emerald.
Petey Jr. pressed both palms to the glass of one algae tank, wide-eyed as the tiny bubbles rose in threads. He tilted his head, following the patterns of swirl and current. His hand lifted to knock before Petey caught his wrist.
“They’re fragile,” Petey murmured. “The pumps are delicate. No tapping.”
The boy flushed faintly but didn’t pull away, keeping his hands pressed flat instead, casually everent now instead of restless.
Dog Man crouched by a row of greens, his ears flicking as he leaned closer to one plant. His paw brushed the underside of a leaf, testing its stiffness. He plucked a tiny piece from one corner and pressed it between his teeth. He chewed thoughtfully, then signed with a small shrug, They’re slightly bitter, might need some potassium.
Petey snorted. “Better bitter than nothing.”
He made notes into the console mounted to the wall. Leaf growth percentages, light intensity checks, nutrient pH balances. It was all steady enough, though one tray showed signs of minor yellowing. He logged it for Molly when she thawed, though he suspected she would only scold them for not supplementing the trace minerals earlier.
They lingered longer than strictly necessary. Hydroponics was the closest thing to a garden that they have had for the last few months. The air here carried weight, the scent of green life that reminded them of Earth without actually resembling it. Even when the lettuce was stringy and the algae smelled faintly sour, the bay was a sanctuary that couldn’t be overlooked.
When they finally left, Petey Jr. glanced back once, as though reluctant to let the glow of the tanks vanish behind the sliding door.
The reactor checks came next. The vessel’s heart thrummed beneath their feet, a vibration so steady that silence without it would mean disaster. Yolay’s systems had held without a hiccup, her programming pristine, but no one trusted code alone to run perfectly for weeks on end without just a brief checkup to make sure.
They moved through the monitoring bay where coolant gauges ticked evenly, where shielding outputs glowed in pale blue lines. Radiation monitors stayed flat and clean. Petey Jr. pressed his palm against the bulkhead and whispered that it felt like a heartbeat. Dog Man’s ears flicked toward him, and he nodded once, not correcting the idea. Sometimes metaphor mattered more than mechanics to a kid, since the screens displayed the efficiency readings and monitored the integrity of the shielding.
“Anything out of range?” Petey asked, more to hear the reassurance aloud than because he doubted.
Dog Man shook his head and signed, All smooth.
Power distribution was next, the backbone that stretched from the reactor to every other corner of the ship. Dog Man ran a diagnostic while Petey listened to the faint hum beneath the deck, claws brushing against the seams. All relays showed steady, backups primed. No oscillations.
By the time they had completed their rounds, their bodies had loosened further. Muscles no longer fought every step. Their lungs drew deeper, steadier breaths. Even their skin seemed to fit more comfortably against bone and tendon. Cryo left you hollow, but duty filled the hollowness again.
Petey stretched both arms above his head until his claws scraped the ceiling. His joints popped with the motion, and he let out a sigh that was half relief, half exhaustion. Dog Man gave him a look that was half amused. Petey Jr. snickered quietly, proud to have kept pace the whole way.
They lingered a moment in the corridor outside the monitoring bay. The hum of pumps shifted faintly, fans cycling new air. It was a sound most people would never notice, but to them it was proof of life. The ship was a fourth presence walking with them, alive because they tended it, alive because they were awake.
“Observation?” Petey asked finally, his voice rough but steadier than it had been since thaw.
Dog Man inclined his head, ears angling forward in agreement. Petey Jr. brightened, tugging both of them by the hands as though the choice had already been made.
The corridor narrowed as they walked toward the lounge, the walls angling inward until they reached the door. Then it opened.
The observation room was warm. Not in temperature, but feeling, with the amazing view and the cushioned deep navy blue couch. The large curved window was made of aluminum oxynitride, giving a crystal clear view that was framed by the titanium supports along the edges. Through that frame was Jupiter. Not the pale globe from textbooks, but a living, breathing monster. Bands of ochre and cream rolled endlessly, storms the size of Earth spiraling in silence. Lightning flared dozens of times a second within hidden depths, brief white veins that disappeared before the eye could blink.
The room itself was subdued by comparison. A few consoles tucked against side panels, storage bins stashed discreetly under the floor, some tables with lightly upholstered seats that acted as the dining area sometimes. Everything designed to keep people looking outward for a space to relax, not inward.
The three of them drifted toward the couch like it was magnetic. Dog Man sank first, tail curling around one side. Petey dropped into the middle with a graceless flop, pulling Petey Jr. close until the boy ended up leaning against his father’s side. After a moment, Dog Man stretched his arm along the backrest around Petey, letting the Jr.’s head find the space between them.
The silence here was different from the cryo bay. There, silence meant an audience of sleepers. Here, it meant the universe itself watching through the window. The ship’s hum softened, and only Jupiter’s storms seemed to breathe.
Jr. pressed his forehead against the glass, fogging it with each exhale. “It’s so big,” he murmured, voice soft as if afraid the planet could hear.
Petey followed his gaze, his own chest loosening. “It always is.” His voice was a rasp but not unkind, the fatigue of waking easing into something gentler.
Dog Man didn’t speak, but his body did. His ears tilted forward, eyes fixed on the Great Red Spot as if measuring it. His hand shifted on the backrest, the weight of his palm anchoring against Petey Jr.’s shoulder, steady and warm.
They let the silence stretch. Jupiter’s clouds folded into one another, belts colliding, eddies forming and dissolving in spans longer than lifetimes. From this distance, the storms were hypnotic with endless motion that made their own small ship feel like an insect crawling across glass.
The boy leaned harder against the window. “Do you think the outpost sees this?”
Petey nodded his head slightly. “Europa’s locked. Same side faces Jupiter forever. They’ll get a good view of it all the time. There’s even a telescope that’ll let us see home if we get a good bit of it.”
“It’s so pretty,” he whispered, as though it were a secret.
Petey glanced at Dog Man. For the first time since waking up, the canine’s lips twitched upward, not a smile exactly, but a small one reserved for amused comfort. Petey felt something loosen in his chest at that, something he hadn’t noticed was tight.
Petey Jr. slipped down from the glass and into the space between them, wedging himself against his father’s chest. He curled his legs up onto the couch, pressing knees against Dog Man’s side. The canine adjusted automatically, shifting closer until the three of them were pressed hip to hip, warmth pooling in the cold glow of the observation deck.
Outside, lightning raked through the belly of a storm band. The flash reflected in Petey’s eyes. He found himself watching the boy’s expression more than the planet, watching awe soften the lines of the lingering fatigue, watching curiosity spark even through the fog of cryo.
Dog Man’s tail brushed once against Petey’s ankle, deliberate, like a quiet affirmation. Petey let the contact linger, not moving away.
For a while they just breathed together, a knot of heat in a room built for staring outward.
Then the boy spoke again, quieter this time. “Do you think they dream in there? The others?”
Petey’s gaze flicked back toward the direction of the cryo bay, though it was sealed behind bulkheads. “Dreams don’t hold steady in cryo. You dip too deep, the body wakes itself to keep from getting so tired that you don’t wake up. Mostly, it’s fragments, but they’re nice fragments.”
“I hope Chief dreams,” the boy said. “He looks like he should.”
Dog Man made a small sound in his throat, something halfway between a hum and a huff. He didn’t disagree.
Petey let out a breath. “If he does, it’ll be about Earth. Most of them will. That’s what always comes up. Earth, and all the ways it isn’t here.”
The boy didn’t answer. He shifted instead, curling tighter against the warmth between them, as if Jupiter’s storms were too big to look at for too long.
Petey let his hand rest against the boy’s hair, smoothing it once, claws careful not to catch. Dog Man leaned his weight just slightly against both of them, so the three pressed closer, a triangle of life wrapped around itself while the cosmos churned indifferent beyond the glass.
The storm bands rolled on, endless and slow. And in the silence of the lounge, with only their breath and heartbeats to count the minutes, the three of them found themselves content to stay exactly as they were. Cuddled together, small but steady, watching the planet turn.
The storms blurred into the background after a while. They were still magnificent, but magnificence softened with time. The window became less a spectacle and more a backdrop, like a fireplace or waves against a shore. Motion too large to comprehend until the brain turned inward again.
Petey Jr. sprawled further across the couch, stretching as though to fill the entire cushion. His feet landed squarely on Dog Man’s thigh. The hybrid flicked one ear at the contact but didn’t move him off. He simply adjusted his weight, one arm draped across the backrest, and gave Petey a long look as if daring him to comment.
“You’re using him like a footrest,” Petey muttered, though his tone carried no real bite.
The boy’s grin was wide and immediate. “He doesn’t mind.”
Dog Man signed a flick of his fingers without looking away from the storms, true. Then he leaned further back, deliberately spreading his frame across the couch so the boy could wedge deeper against his side. His tail curled lazily, brushing once against the boy’s ankles.
Petey rolled his eyes. “Spoiled already.”
That earned a burst of laughter, bright and sudden. Petey Jr. buried his face into Dog Man’s shoulder, muffling the sound as the hybrid’s ears twitched like radar dishes. Petey’s own chuckle followed, lower, rusty from disuse. The sound startled him with its honesty. It had been too long since he’d let himself laugh freely, maybe since Earth, maybe since even before cryo.
The couch creaked as they shifted closer, a tangle of limbs that might have looked awkward to anyone else but fit naturally here. Warmth was more valuable than neatness in space.
“Will we be awake for landing?” Petey Jr. asked after a long pause, his voice soft from the drowsiness creeping into his bones.
Petey tilted his head toward him. “That’s the plan. The rest of the crew will thaw a few days before descent. Everyone sharp, everyone ready. We’ll be the welcoming committee.”
“Feels like babysitting,” the boy said, smirk tugging at his lips.
Petey’s claws ruffled his hair gently. “That’s exactly what it is. Babysitting six people who each weigh two hundred pounds and would die if the heaters blink.”
Dog Man huffed, chest vibrating with amusement. He signed one-handed, don’t drop them.
Petey gestured at him with a dry snort. “See? He agrees.”
The boy laughed again, curling tighter into the pocket they’d made for him. Dog Man responded with a slow wag of his tail, brushing against Petey’s ankle deliberately this time, a quiet gesture of camaraderie.
Petey narrowed his eyes but let it stand. He was too comfortable to protest.
After a while, hunger made itself known. Cryo stripped the body down to base functions, but once metabolism restarted, so did appetite. Petey Jr. tugged a foil ration pack from his pocket, crinkling it open with quick fingers.
“Don’t spill it,” Petey warned. “Chief will roast us alive if the couch ends up sticky.”
The boy snorted and sucked at the nozzle. His eyes lit up almost immediately. “It’s peanut butter.”
Petey gave him a look. “It’s soy protein paste with synthetic sugar. Don’t lie to yourself.”
Dog Man leaned over, and the boy passed the pack without hesitation. Dog Man squeezed a taste onto his tongue, chewed thoughtfully, then signed a single word, sweet.
Petey groaned. “You two deserve each other.”
Still, he pulled out his own ration. Vanilla flavored slurry. It clung to his tongue with the faint taste of algae oils. He grimaced but kept drinking. Calories were calories.
The three of them ate in companionable quiet, the sound of tearing foil and the hum of ventilation filling the room. Petey Jr. kicked his legs idly against Dog Man’s thigh, earning a lazy tail brush in return. The rhythm became oddly soothing, like a heartbeat in motion.
After a while came the unglamorous part of wake cycles, upkeep of themselves. Petey pulled a packet of microfiber wipes from the storage bin, tearing it open. “Wipe down. Don’t argue.”
The younger feline groaned dramatically but obeyed, swiping the cloth over his arms and face. It wasn’t a shower, but water conservation left little room for indulgence. Scented wipes were the closest thing to luxury. This one smelled faintly of lemon.
Dog Man took his turn without complaint, fur bristling slightly as he rubbed it over his arms and chest. He signed afterward, better.
Petey muttered agreement, though his own wipe down left him smelling faintly of antiseptic more than citrus. Still, the ritual mattered. Little things staved off the creeping unreality of being awake in an empty ship.
Next came teeth. The gel brushes weren’t glamorous either, but the boy hummed as he used his, pretending it was candy paste. Petey rolled his eyes, brushing in silence until his gums tingled. Dog Man worked more slowly, ears angled toward them as though listening to their rhythm.
When they were done, the boy sprawled back on the couch, satisfied. “Feels almost normal,” he said.
Petey smirked. “Don’t get used to it. Outpost water rations make this look generous.”
Dog Man signed, It’ll taste like ice melt.
The boy wrinkled his nose. “Gross.”
His attention drifted back to the window, gaze locked on Jupiter’s swirling storms. “What’s Europa like?”
Petey tilted his head. “Cold. Cracked ice, kilometers deep. No sun, just Jupiter’s light. But underneath…” He paused, watching the boy’s face.
“The ocean,” the boy whispered. His eyes shone. “The one that’s been sealed for billions of years.”
Dog Man signed with sharp precision, maybe life.
“Maybe,” Petey agreed softly. He had never seen Dog Man’s eyes carry such intensity as when he signed those two words.
“What if we find something?” the boy asked, voice trembling with awe and the smallest flicker of fear.
“Then we learn,” Petey said. “That’s why we’re here. To learn.”
The boy pressed closer, his small hand creeping into Dog Man’s. The hybrid clasped it firmly, tail brushing against both of them.
From there, conversation drifted into the usual territory, Earth.
Petey spoke of fruit. Apples so tart they made your jaw ache. Strawberries so sweet they stained your fingers. Mangoes sticky across your lips. The boy listened with wide eyes, never having tasted more than preserved slices in a lab pack in the last few months.
Dog Man added memories in gesture, grass smell, warm sun, rain noise to fill in the mental scene.
The boy’s smile wilted a bit, but only for a second. “I can’t wait until we go back home,” he said happily.
The storm bands rolled on outside, relentless and eternal. Lightning cracked deep in the Great Red Spot, white veins that reflected across their faces like brief flashes of memory.
Petey leaned back, feeling his son curled against his chest and Dog Man’s steady weight against his shoulder. For a moment, the enormity of space shrank to this, three bodies pressed close on a couch, hearts beating in rhythm.
“Wake cycles aren’t so bad,” he admitted under his breath.
Dog Man’s tail brushed his ankle in quiet agreement. Petey Jr. yawned, wide and unrestrained, then sprawled across both of them as if to claim them both as his.
They rearranged automatically, shifting until they fit comfortably. Dog Man’s arm tucked around the boy, Petey’s claws brushing lightly through his hair, the three of them a knot of life pressed against the cold glass.
Together, they watched lightning crawl across a storm the size of Earth, and for a little while, the void beyond felt less empty.
The observation lounge had a way of eating time. They had meant to sit for only a little while, just long enough to shake the fog from their heads and feel like people again, but the storms outside were too much like a slow hypnotic dance. One minute became two, then ten, then more, until they were half asleep against one another on the couch, Jupiter rolling on and on like a planet with nothing better to do.
It was Petey who pulled them out of it. His claws shifted through his son’s hair, not ungently, but enough to make the boy stir. “Time,” he rasped, his voice still gravel from the thaw. “We’ve got to move. Beds now.”
Petey Jr. groaned and buried his face against Dog Man’s shoulder, his words muffled. “I’m not tired.”
“You’re yawning,” Petey said.
“I’m not.”
Dog Man flicked an ear and signed a quick phrase with one hand. You’ll want to go to bed now instead of later. His muzzle twitched faintly, the silent equivalent of a chuckle.
“You’re outnumbered, kid,” Petey added. He tapped his claws against his son’s knee. “Up.”
The boy heaved a dramatic sigh but let himself be pulled upright. His steps wobbled as he stood, proof that whatever his mouth claimed, his body had other plans. Dog Man’s hand brushed his shoulder briefly as if steadying him without making a fuss.
They left the lounge together. The corridor outside was already dimming, lights tuned to the spectrum the ship’s designers had declared best for sleep preparation. Reds and ambers, warm enough to signal evening, soft enough not to rattle tired eyes. The air carried the faint chill of the ship’s automated “night,” just a degree cooler than daytime cycles, a subtle cue to let muscles ease.
The walk to their quarters was short, but every step felt longer in bodies still recovering from weeks of stasis. Their joints creaked, their balance swayed, and their strides never quite matched. Petey Jr. clung to his father’s side until his legs found rhythm again, his smaller frame leaning into Dog Man when he stumbled once more.
Their quarters opened with a whisper of seals releasing, the door sliding back to reveal a space as compact as the designers could get away with. Three bunks bolted to one wall, lockers on the opposite side, a narrow strip of floor between. There was no privacy curtain drawn tonight, only the faint glow of the rest-cycle lights bleeding red across the walls.
The boy climbed into his bunk first, clumsy with fatigue. He flopped onto his side and pulled at the straps that would hold him steady against the wall. They tangled in his hands. Petey leaned down with a sigh, his claws deft even when his body still felt half clay.
“Here,” he said, guiding the straps across his son’s chest. “You’re twisting it. You’ve got to thread it through the loop first. Like this.”
“I knew that,” the boy muttered.
“Uh-huh.” Petey fastened the last buckle. “Good thing I was here to remind you.”
The boy gave him a crooked smile but said nothing.
Petey lingered, one claw brushing the edge of his hairline. “Listen,” he said, softer now. “After cryo, your body clock’s a mess. You think you’re awake, but your system’s not sure if it’s morning or midnight. If you stay up too long, it’ll flip itself the wrong way, and then you’ll feel like you’re walking underwater for days.”
The boy blinked at him, still caught between stubbornness and sleep. “So I’m broken?”
“Not broken,” Petey said lightly. “Temporarily defective. Like a radio that only plays static until you smack it. Sleep’s the smack. You give yourself rest early, you reset quicker. That’s all.”
The boy huffed a laugh. “You’re weird, Dad.”
“Maybe,” Petey said, his muzzle twitching faintly. “But I’m not wrong. You’ll thank me when you don’t pass out in the middle of diagnostics tomorrow. Imagine if you fell asleep face-first into the scrubber console. We’d all choke because you were snoring into the air filters.”
That made the boy laugh properly, shoulders shaking under the straps. He tried to hide the sound in his pillow, but his grin betrayed him.
Dog Man watched from his bunk across the narrow space. His ears tilted forward, eyes glinting in the dim light. He signed a slow phrase, good words, and settled back against his own straps. His tail brushed once against the side rail before curling tight.
Petey straightened, rolling his shoulders. His calves ached from the walk, muscles still thin from cryo, but the pain felt distant now. He sat on the edge of his own bunk, running a claw along the strap harness absently. His son’s breathing had already begun to steady, his eyes drooping despite the protests from earlier.
“You’re going to sleep,” Petey said, almost to himself. “See? Not tired at all.”
“M’not,” the boy mumbled, though the word blurred into a yawn. His eyelids fluttered shut a moment later, and he was gone.
The room quieted. The hum of the ship filled the silence instead, pumps moving water, fans shifting air, the low vibration of the reactor beneath their feet. It was not ominous. It was familiar, like the hum of a refrigerator in a home kitchen, the constant reminder that things were running as they should.
Petey leaned back at last, pulling the straps across his chest. They settled snugly, keeping him from drifting in the low gravity. He tilted his head, catching Dog Man’s gaze across the space. The hybrid’s ears twitched once. He signed again, safe.
“Safe,” Petey echoed. His voice had lost its rasp now, softened by exhaustion into something gentle.
They lay like that for a while, the boy’s breathing steady between them, the ship humming its quiet song.
The boy was the first to drift. He always was. One moment he was mumbling about not being tired, the next his breath was deep and even, chest rising under the harness with the steady rhythm of someone already far away. A strand of hair clung to the corner of his mouth, rising and falling with each exhale. He twitched once in his sleep, a hand jerking free of its strap to dangle into the narrow gap between bunks.
Petey, still awake, reached over and tucked it gently back. His claws were careful, always careful, not to catch on the fabric. The boy didn’t stir. He sighed softly, the way children did when their bodies surrendered fully to rest, and Petey let his hand linger a moment longer before withdrawing.
The quarters were dim, lit only by the red cycle lamps overhead. The color painted everything in soft shadows, the bunks like quiet alcoves, the lockers like standing silhouettes. The air smelled faintly of the lemon wipes they had used earlier, mixed with the metallic tang that never quite left recycled atmosphere. To Petey it was not unpleasant, only familiar, the scent of home for however long they traveled.
Dog Man lay opposite him, eyes still open. His straps were loose across his chest, paws folded neatly, ears twitching faintly to every small sound. He had not given in yet. Petey tilted his head against his own pillow and met his gaze across the space.
“You don’t have to stand guard,” Petey said quietly. His voice was low so as not to wake the boy.
Dog Man raised his brows slightly. His hands moved with practiced ease, signing his reply. It’s a habit, one I’ll keep doing.
Petey huffed softly. “Some habit. You’ll burn yourself out.”
Dog Man shifted, ears angling toward the boy before flicking back. He signed again, I’ll keep watch for a bit.
It was not the cold kind of watching, not paranoia. It was the kind of word that held weight, a quiet instinct that said he wanted to keep close, to keep aware, because that was how he knew to protect. Petey studied him for a moment, then exhaled, the faintest smile tugging at his muzzle.
“You’re stubborn,” he said.
Dog Man gave the smallest shrug, straps creaking faintly under the motion. His muzzle twitched, not quite a smile, but close enough.
The boy stirred, murmuring something too soft to catch, then settled again. His hand crept upward in his sleep, brushing against the strap over his shoulder as though holding onto it for comfort. Petey reached for his wrist out of instinct, but this time he left it be. The boy’s breathing smoothed again, steady as a metronome.
Petey leaned back into his bunk, closing his eyes briefly. The straps pressed against his chest and ribs in their familiar embrace, firm enough to hold him, never quite comfortable, but part of the rhythm of ship life. He adjusted one, loosening it until it stopped digging into his collarbone. His claws tapped faintly against the buckle before he stilled them.
The ship’s hum filled the silence, a symphony of small sounds layered into one. The air recyclers whispered with a constant rush, like wind through a tunnel. The pumps ticked as water cycled through filtration, faint gurgles audible if one listened hard enough. The reactor thrummed like a giant’s heartbeat, deep enough to be felt rather than heard, traveling through metal and into bone. The combination should have been noise, but to Petey it was comfort. It meant life continued, systems steady, everything as it should be.
He turned his head again toward Dog Man. “You going to sleep at all tonight?”
Dog Man signed, later.
“You say that every cycle,” Petey muttered.
Dog Man shrugged again, a motion more of acceptance than defense. His eyes flicked once more to the boy, then toward the ceiling, ears angling toward some hum Petey couldn’t hear. His silence said enough. He would rest when he was certain the boy was deep enough in dreams, not before.
Petey chuckled softly. He reached up to the locker shelf above his bunk and pulled down his wrist pad. The display flickered to life, dimmed to its lowest setting so it wouldn’t spill light across the room. He scrolled quickly through diagnostics, each number familiar and reassuring. Scrubbers steady, reactor smooth, hydroponics automated for the cycle. Everything exactly as they had checked earlier. He set the pad aside again with a faint snort at his own paranoia.
“You’ll wake him if you keep staring like that,” he muttered.
Dog Man tilted his head, ears perked in faint amusement. His fingers signed a single word, liar.
Petey laughed under his breath. “Fine. He’d sleep through an asteroid impact anyway.”
The boy shifted again in his bunk, turning so that his face angled toward Petey now. His mouth was slack, his lashes shadowing his cheeks. His breathing didn’t falter. One knee bent unconsciously, pressing against the harness strap as though testing its strength. Petey watched for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose.
“He’s tougher than he looks,” Petey said, not really intending for it to be heard.
Dog Man signed a slow phrase, like father.
Petey let silence follow that. He rolled the word over in his head, heavier than it should have been, yet warm at its edges.
He shifted his weight, tugging his straps tighter across his chest. They were never comfortable, but at least snug straps meant no drifting, no awkward jolts waking him in the middle of rest. He curled one arm behind his head, claws clicking faintly against the thin padding. His other hand draped loosely over his stomach.
The recycled air carried its familiar flavors. Faint detergent from laundered fabric. Metallic tang that clung no matter how many filters the air passed through. The lemony trace of the wipes they had used earlier. He had grown used to it, no longer noticing unless he thought to. Tonight, it was grounding.
“Feels like home, doesn’t it?” he said softly, surprising himself with the thought.
Dog Man blinked at him across the narrow room. His hands lifted, signing carefully. Home is people, not the place.
Petey’s throat tightened faintly, though his muzzle curled into a half smile. “Fair point.”
They let the quiet linger. The boy’s breaths filled the space between them, steady, unbothered. Outside, Jupiter turned unseen, storms rolling on regardless of whether three lives rested or not.
Dog Man finally tugged his own straps tighter, locking himself into place. His eyes lingered open a while longer, then slid shut. His ears twitched once more, then stilled.
Petey stayed awake for a few minutes after, not fighting the tide but letting it take him slowly. His thoughts wandered in fragments, not fears, not plans, just the trivial drift that always came before true sleep. A memory of the taste of an apple from Earth. The sound of his son’s laugh earlier in the lounge. Dog Man’s tail brushing against his ankle when they teased one another.
The straps across his chest felt less like restraint now and more like a blanket. The hum of the ship pressed into his bones, not ominous, but soothing. His eyes slid closed.
Sleep came like gravity reasserting itself, steady and irresistible. It was not struggle, not surrender, only what it had always been: three people sharing a room, ending a day as people did, side by side, safe within the heart of their vessel.
Inside, three people rested on bunks, held not by straps alone but by the simple gravity of closeness. Tomorrow would come, with its checks and routines and the long approach to Europa. For now, there was nothing left to do but sleep, and in that quiet, the ship felt less like a machine and more like a home.