"Send the hauler drone," Kael said, eyes locked onto the pulsing beacon flickering on the holo-display. The faint glow painted sharp reflections on the pod's scratched viewport. "Scout pod's flagged that life capsule. I want everything we can get out of it before anyone else decides to pay it a visit."
"Confirmed," the AI responded, voice steady and measured. "Dispatching hauler drone to target coordinates. Estimated arrival: ninety-three seconds."
Kael exhaled slowly, settling back against the worn seat. Outside, the wreckage field drifted endlessly—a graveyard of twisted metal, shattered hopes, and frozen silence. He tracked the hauler drone's feed as it detached from the pod with practiced ease, its thrusters whispering soft bursts of blue light against the star-speckled blackness.
The debris cluster surrounding the escape pod was dense and unforgiving. Jagged plating jutted like broken ribs, melted conduits hung like frozen cobwebs, and entire bulkhead segments—torn away from the colony ship's carcass—tumbled slowly in erratic orbits. Yet despite the carnage, the pod itself endured. It was scorched, scarred, and battered, but the main hull remained sealed tight enough to keep its secrets.
"Signal from the beacon remains stable," the AI reported. "Broadcasting at standard emergency interval. No authentication match found."
Kael muttered, "Doesn't mean it's not worth looking into. Could be bait. Could be treasure." His eyes flicked to the blinking beacon—steady, insistent—a pulse of digital heartbeat amidst the vast quiet.
The hauler drone drew closer, its lights sweeping over the pod's exterior in a slow, meticulous arc. Burnt-out maneuvering jets hung uselessly at awkward angles. Carbon scoring traced long, dark streaks across the shell. Communication arrays were shattered, their twisted remains silent testimony to the blast that had torn the colony ship apart. The pod's hatch stood slightly ajar—not blasted off in some fiery explosion, but carefully forced open. Not torn or shattered. Just… pried.
Inside, shadows pooled in the dim light, wrapping around broken rails and buckled wall panels like ghostly fingers. The drone angled its camera through the threshold and drifted inside, its quiet hum a rare sound in the eerie stillness.
"Scanning interior," the AI announced. "Detecting inactive power core. Local temperature suggests it has been cold for several days."
A dull metallic shape caught the drone's light—resting unnaturally against the back bulkhead.
"Object identified," the AI continued. "Secondary AI core casing lodged in the bulkhead. Condition: mostly intact. Localized scorch damage. Power cell drained."
Kael sat up straighter, his breath catching. "What the hell's that doing stuck in the bulkhead?"
"The AI core was dislodged during the explosion," the AI explained, "and forced into the bulkhead cavity by the violent impact and subsequent vibrations. Currently inactive."
Kael's eyes narrowed. The colony ship's escape pods all had their own basic AI cores—rudimentary systems designed for emergency life support and navigation. But his pod's AI was different, a sophisticated entity integrated deeply with the ship's systems. This secondary core was the original, now sidelined and powerless.
Before he could dwell further, the drone pivoted, its lights catching a small fluttering object drifting slowly in the zero-g cabin.
A scrap of polymer sheet, illuminated against the gloom. Handwritten. Suspended in the air, caught in a slow tumble, as if reluctant to settle.
The drone zoomed in, the AI's voice low.
"Document detected. Handwriting legible. Attachment via stripped wiring."
Kael's heart skipped. He reached forward, eyes fixed on the floating note.
The drone captured the text clearly:
We took what mattered. Might be back in a day or two. Don't touch the relay.
Kael blinked, a tight knot forming in his chest. The message was startling in its calm certainty. No frantic pleas. No sign-off. Just a quiet warning—and a claim staked without hesitation.
"Analyze the handwriting and material composition," Kael ordered.
"Unknown author. Ink composition indicates 72 to 96 hours since writing. Polymer sheet standard issue from colony stock. No match to personnel records from the colony ship."
Kael's fingers clenched into fists, a strange mixture of relief and dread washing over him. Someone might still be alive out here. Someone who could have been part of the ship's final hours—or maybe the cause of its destruction.
He didn't know if that was hope or a threat.
"Retrieve the AI core casing carefully," Kael instructed, voice tight. "Do not disturb anything else inside the pod. And keep scanning for any signs of movement or returning traffic."
"Acknowledged," the AI confirmed.
The drone extended delicate mechanical arms and lifted the core gently from its embedded position. Kael's eyes remained locked on the floating note, watching as it twirled slowly in the pod's microgravity environment, caught between motion and stillness.
There was something deeply unsettling about the note—not its words, but the certainty they conveyed. Whoever left it wasn't guessing or desperate. They knew exactly what they were doing. They intended to come back.
The silence of the graveyard around them suddenly felt heavier. Time was no longer Kael's ally. The void outside the pod seemed to press inward, and the cold pulse of the beacon—steady, unyielding—felt like a countdown.
Kael swallowed hard. This place, this drifting mausoleum, was not as empty as he'd believed. And whatever came next, he would have to face it alone.