Tatehan stood before the science fiction shelf, his eyes going through the unfamiliar titles arranged along the floating surface. But his mind drifted backward, pulled toward memories of a different time and a different world.

He'd been more of a fantasy fan back on Earth, truth be told. Give him dragons and he was happy. Give him intricate magic systems with rules and limitations, with costs and consequences, and he'd devour every page. Medieval settings called to him in ways that futuristic tech never quite had, knights in armor, castles rising from misty valleys, enchanted forests, wizards manipulating forces beyond mortal comprehension and all that.

He'd spent countless hours immersed in those worlds.

But now on Mars, impossibly far from Earth in both distance and time. Far into what was humanity's future, though he had no idea what year it actually was but all he knew was that he was a century into the future.

He was living in a spaceship, this crashed vessel had become his home.

He was living in some sort of science fiction now so he figured it was time for a change of genre.

Tatehan had watched futuristic movies back on Earth, of course. Space operas with massive fleet battles and dystopian futures where humanity struggled against its own worst impulses.

The science fiction novels were completely unfamiliar—authors he'd never heard of. The subjects varied wildly: generation ships traveling between galaxies, first contact scenarios gone wrong or wonderfully right, artificial intelligence achieving consciousness, time travel paradoxes, dimensional rifts, quantum realities.

One title caught his attention immediately: "The Fleet Commander of the Burning Skies."

He pulled it from the shelf, the physical sensation of gripping an actual book was surprisingly satisfying after weeks of dealing only with digital interfaces, and examined it. The cover showed a stylized image of a massive spacecraft silhouetted against a burning star, smaller ships arrayed in formation around it. The spine indicated it was the first book in a series.

Tatehan opened to a random page in the middle and read a few lines:

"Commander Vektis stood on the observation deck, watching the enemy fleet approach through the debris field. Three hundred ships against his seventy. Impossible odds by any calculation. But calculations didn't account for surprise, for tactics learned through decades of void warfare, for a crew that had learned to fight as one seamless organism. He smiled grimly and activated the fleet-wide communications..."

The prose was clean, direct and… actually engaging. It looked as any English-language novel he might have picked up on Earth. Tatehan felt a small thrill of anticipation. This could be good. This could be exactly what he needed.

He checked the page count—404 pages. A decent length, enough to really sink into the story without being intimidatingly long.

Decision made.

Tatehan moved to the comfortable reading chair positioned in the center of the library. It was upholstered in some kind of soft material, dark blue or gray in the ambient lighting, with armrests at the perfect height and a back that provided support without being rigid. Next to it, the small side table held nothing but empty space, ready to hold a drink or snack if desired.

He settled into the chair, which adjusted slightly to his body weight and position, conforming to provide optimal comfort. The side table was at perfect height for resting his elbow if needed, or for setting the book down when he wanted to rest his arms.

Tatehan opened "The Fleet Commander of the Burning Skies" to the first page and began to read.

The story pulled him in immediately, Commander Vektis, a veteran military leader dealing with political intrigue and impossible combat situations, trying to hold together a fractious alliance while facing many enemies with spaceships.

The worldbuilding was rich without being overwhelming, the characters compelling and the action vivid.

Tatehan lost himself in it, turning pages steadily, barely aware of the passage of time. The library was perfectly quiet except for the soft rustle of pages and his own occasional shifts in the chair. The lighting remained comfortable, never straining his eyes. The temperature was ideal.

This was peace. This was a goddamn escape. This was exactly what he'd been missing without fully realizing it.

Hours passed as the story progressed through space battles, diplomatic negotiations, personal conflicts, and strategic gambits. Commander Vektis proved to be a complex protagonist, brilliant but flawed to an extent, capable of both ruthless tactics and surprising compassion. The supporting cast was equally well-developed, each character distinct and memorable.

When Tatehan finally reached the last page and read the final lines, a cliffhanger ending that left multiple plot threads unresolved and made him immediately want the next book, he looked up and blinked in surprise.

"That was amazing," he said aloud, closing the book and running his hand over the cover. "Absolutely worth every minute."

He stood from the chair, stretching muscles that had stiffened slightly from sitting still for so long, and looked around for the sequel. It was a series, the spine had indicated "Book 1 of 5"—which meant there should be at least four more volumes waiting somewhere on that shelf.

The science fiction shelf had remained at browsing height, and Tatehan quickly went through the titles again. There—"The Fleet Commander and the Silent War" marked as Book 2 of 5. He pulled it from the shelf with a sense of satisfaction and anticipation.

Another 400-some pages of story awaited him. More space battles, more political intrigue, more character development.

The day was still young (probably, he'd lost track of Martian time cycles), and he had nothing else to do so he began to read.

———

Tatehan left the library feeling entertained, more satisfied than he'd been in weeks.

He'd ended up reading the sequel to completion, a 500-page novel that had somehow felt shorter than its page count suggested.

His eyes were tired from hours of reading, slightly strained despite the library's perfect lighting. His back ached from sitting in the same position for so long, even with the chair's adaptive comfort. His mind felt pleasantly exhausted in the way that came from intense mental engagement rather than physical exertion.

He'd left the library just once during his reading marathon, maybe three-quarters of the way through the second book when his throat had gone dry and his stomach had started making demanding noises. The story had been at a particularly tense moment, but basic biological needs had finally overridden his desire to keep reading.

Tatehan had reluctantly marked his place and made his way to the kitchen area. He'd grabbed a bottle of water from the storage compartment and downed it in long gulps, the cold liquid soothing his parched throat. Then he'd also taken a bottle of juice, something sweet and refreshing, a blend that tasted vaguely citrus with undertones he couldn't quite identify but enjoyed nonetheless.

He'd carried the juice back to the library carefully, not wanting to spill anything on the precious books or the nice chair, and set it on the small side table where it had remained within easy reach. He'd sipped from it periodically as he continued reading, the cold sweetness a pleasant counterpoint to the tension and drama unfolding on the pages.

That had been his only interruption.

Now, standing on the main cabin outside the sealed library wall, Tatehan realized he'd done essentially nothing productive all day beyond that morning workout in the gym.

He didn't care so much though, sometimes the mind needed exercise as much as the body.

But he definitely needed to clean up.

He could feel the dried sweat from his morning workout still clinging to his skin, mixed with the general grime of existing in a spacecraft for extended periods. His hair felt greasy when he ran his hand through it, and his clothes had that stale feeling that came from wearing them too long without changing.

In the end, he headed straight for the hygiene station, stripping off his worn clothes as soon as he entered and stepping into the shower unit. The water came on (warm stuff), cascading over him and washing away the accumulated sweat and dirt.

The nozzles did their work, bathing him.

When he finally emerged, dried off and dressed in fresh clothes, he felt clean, refreshed, ready for sleep.

Tatehan made his way to the sleeping area without bothering to check on anything else. He didn't use the communicator device to see if there were any messages, maybe chat Riven.

He hadn't even chatted the commander of the Red crest clan since he got the device. Or had she sent him a message and he had not seen it.

Well, he'd check tomorrow.

Maybe plan on sending the spaceship to his system space. But he just restored the Gym and the library so he might linger for a while, maybe a week before leaving to Waython hollow and returning to his fighting life.

He would have loved to stay longer but with the obscuron power drunk and expanding here, he would have to leave.

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