Chapter 3

My friend, how have you been lately? I apologize for not replying to your message right away. We’re still in the Azathoth Star Sector, the Cupid’s Arrow is undergoing maintenance at the Starport, and the inn we’re staying at doesn’t prioritize communication services.

The festival here is just like those in other star sectors—music, food, drinks, and contraband. Thanks to the special envoy’s supervision, we weren’t tempted by the suspicious drugs slipped to us by those shape-shifters. But like other festival-goers, we drank a lot—honestly, I’ve never had so much before. The excessive alcohol has left me in a semi-lucid, drunken state these past few days. Mr. Planet is handling it much better than I am—no, I suspect he can’t get drunk at all. Even though he’s currently in the same physiological form as me, the alcohol he consumes probably means nothing more to him than irrelevant organic matter.

—Ah, sorry, did I just call him “Mr. Planet” again? I promised him I’d stop using that title. I need to get used to it quickly.

The festival and the drinks are truly relaxing. During our time in Azathoth, the boundaries of our conversations have loosened far more than they did on the way here. Topics I once considered sensitive have now become casual toasts over drinks.

We exchanged stories about our lives, reminisced about some misunderstandings when we first met, and finally, we talked about the issue of names.

On the Cupid’s Arrow, I rarely addressed him directly as “Mr. Planet” because he never mentioned his own name or code name. Most of the time, I simply used “you” or “sir” when speaking to him. Only when discussing him with the special envoy from the Department of Legal Affairs did I refer to him as “Mr. Planet.”

The Cupid’s Arrow is a small ship. He’s heard me call him “Mr. Planet” before, but he always seemed indifferent—until this festival, when he finally showed signs of discomfort.

“I’m not a planet. I can be one, but I can also be a star or a black hole, just as I can be a lifeform with the same composition as you.”

That’s what he said.

At the time, we were sitting in a dimly lit bar, crowded with patrons and filled with thick, though not unpleasant, air. Oddly shaped customers chattered in various languages, while shape-shifters sang a hymn praising the local star sector on the small stage by the bar. The noise nearly drowned out his words, so I couldn’t hear him clearly. He moved closer, almost pressing against my ear, and repeated himself.

“I became a planet simply because I could, not because I had to.”

A little helpless, a little confused, and a little aggrieved—his voice carried unmistakable emotion. Even without seeing his face, I could picture his expression: that innocent, perfectly fitting look of his.

I’m far too familiar with that expression—so familiar that even imagining it made me relent. “I won’t call you that anymore,” I promised.

After my promise, he smiled—brightly, happily. “I don’t have a name. When I was a planet, no one ever called out to me. Would you give me one?”

He asked me for a name.

That request moved me deeply.

Qikeliyah, do you understand? I’m wavering.

This sense of hesitation actually appeared before we arrived in the Azathoth Star Sector, but I’ve been deliberately ignoring it. He’s right—he isn’t truly a planet. Even though he orbited for so long, even though he once nurtured life, his essence is still that of a living being, not an insensate celestial body.

He learned to speak on my ship, experimented with the flavors of different foods, laughed uncontrollably at video programs—I can summarize his tastes and preferences, and sometimes even find humor in those nightmare-like physiology lessons.

Should I really send him back to his original orbit?

His disappearance would disrupt the planetary system he belonged to, altering gravitational forces and shifting the orbits of other celestial bodies. But once a new equilibrium is found, they’ll stabilize again. He isn’t indispensable to that system.

He doesn’t have to be a planet.

He has intelligence, emotions, a long lifespan, and a deep curiosity about different lifeforms and civilizations. He enjoys life on the Cupid’s Arrow. If I send him back, he’ll be trapped in a celestial form, confined to a gravitational orbit.

That seems too cruel.

I know my thoughts are somewhat influenced by drunkenness, but Qikeliyah, after giving him a name, it’s become far too difficult to ignore the hesitation in my heart.

Names are strange things. Once used, they seem to forge a connection—perhaps even a sense of responsibility.

We can’t refer to him as “Mr. Planet” anymore. He has a name now—Yog. Yes, I named him after that bar we often visit. I told him about the bar too, and he had no objections to the name. In fact, he seemed intrigued by the idea of visiting. I think I should find a chance to take him to our homeworld to try the drinks at Yog Bubble Bar. Knowing him, he’d love it.

The music festival in Azathoth is nearing its end. The diligent AI special envoy from the Department of Legal Affairs urges us to leave every day. “Avoid the traffic peak at the end,” he says. He’s adapted well to the role of navigator—if only he were just a navigator.

The Alliance hasn’t sent me any messages urging me to hurry, but judging by the special envoy’s behavior, they’re keeping tabs on Yog and me.

If I were to defy the Alliance’s decision, I suspect our ‘navigator’ would swiftly revert to his role as an ‘enforcer.’

So don’t worry about my drunken ramblings. I cherish my freedom too much—these drunken words are just that: drunken words. Don’t take them seriously, and don’t feel obliged to reply. Remember the word games we used to play? Treat this the same way—don’t take it to heart.

My friend, the festival in Azathoth is truly worth experiencing.

Maybe there’ll be a chance—like a honeymoon trip for you and your partner?

The Black Gold Tavern is excellent, if I may recommend it.

The Fur-Shedding Monster—I mean, Ithaqua’s Cold Delights—isn’t bad either.

Among the drugs the AI special envoy forbade us from touching, there are some suitable for couples.

In any case, if you’re interested, I’ll write you a more detailed festival guide—no need to reply right away. We still need to sober up first.