Verlin stood waiting in his chamber for a few minutes, awating the arrival of his escorts. By the time they arrived the temperature in the chamber had returned to normal.
The beings that entered weren't the usual extraterrestrial lifeforms he expected. Instead, three dark purple constructs stepped inside.
He recognized them immediately—the same type that had escorted him from his containment cell to this testing chamber a week ago. Unlike the light blue salvage units he had destroyed in the Arctic, these were built for combat.
They positioned themselves in a triangle formation—one directly in front of the doorway, two flanking at angles that covered the entire chamber. Their faceted heads tracked Verlin with perfect synchronization.
None of them spoke.
The construct directly ahead gestured toward the doorway with one arm.
Verlin walked forward, passing between the flanking constructs. Their weapon systems tracked his movement with mechanical precision as he stepped into the corridor beyond.
The hallway stretched before him, crystalline walls pulsing with soft blue bioluminescent light. More constructs lined the corridor—at least a dozen dark purple and black units standing at attention.
The escort moved in silence. One led the way, two followed behind, maintaining exact spacing as they navigated the ship's identical, geometric corridors.
After several minutes and multiple turns, they stopped before a large circular door—wider than the others, etched with more intricate patterns.
The door irised open.
The constructs gestured for Verlin to enter.
Verlin stepped into a vast chamber—easily a hundred meters across, with a domed ceiling rising at least fifty meters overhead. The space was empty.
Except for the holograms.
Hundreds of them floated throughout the chamber—glowing blue projections of components, schematics, system diagrams. Pieces of technology suspended in mid-air, rotating slowly, waiting.
Verlin recognized them immediately.
Coration technology. All of it.
The constructs remained at the doorway as Verlin moved further into the room. The door sealed behind him with a soft chime.
Then the voice filled the chamber—Drayen's voice, amplified through speakers embedded in the walls.
"You have three hours to reconfigure a Coration mothership prototype using the holographic components provided," Drayen said. "The components are based on salvaged technology we have been unable to fully decipher. If you succeed in assembling a functional design and can explain the purpose of each system, your status will change—not only aboard this vessel, but within the Coalition as a whole."
A pause.
"If you fail, termination proceeds immediately. Your time begins now."
The voice withdrew.
Verlin stood alone in the vast chamber, surrounded by hundreds of floating holographic components.
He approached the nearest projection—a power distributor rotating slowly in place. The design was familiar. He had seen it before.
Studied it.
Built it.
His memory wasn't as sharp as it used to be. Details that would have been instantly accessible now required effort to recall. The Coration language had given him trouble—he'd spent only seconds learning it initially, and relearning it over the past week had been relatively difficult.
But the mothership?
He'd spent weeks aboard a functional one. Observing. Studying. And more than that—he'd built a miniature version. Assembled it piece by piece. Tested its systems. Understood how everything connected.
This shouldn't be a problem.
Verlin reached out and touched the holographic power core. It responded to his hand, shifting position as he moved it through the air.
He began sorting through the components, organizing them mentally into categories.
Propulsion systems. Energy distribution. Weapons arrays. Life support. Navigation. Communications.
Three hours.
He could do this.
With that thought in mind, Verlin immediately got to work. The holohgraphic mothership he was putting together was different from the one he had built before. The make up of the ship was closer to the one he and Desna had succefully captured. The power core was the crystal with a similar design to the dagger in his heart, the stealth system was more advanced than the other motherships that had invaded alongside it.
From what he knew, this was the Coration Empire's most advanced ship. Completing the assembly would be straightforward—just time-consuming.
Verlin worked methodically, pulling components from the air and slotting them into position. The holographic interface responded smoothly to his touch, pieces snapping together with satisfying clicks as the virtual structure took shape.
Power core first—the purple crystal similar in design to the dagger in his chest. He positioned it at the center of the skeletal framework, then began building outward.
Energy distribution conduits. Hexagonal node arrays for the shield matrix. Spatial compression generators for propulsion and stealth—this ship's system was more advanced than the standard motherships, he noted. Weapon platforms. Navigation arrays. Life support systems.
The design came back to him piece by piece. Not perfectly—he had to pause occasionally, close his eyes, and pull the memories forward. But it came.
An hour passed.
The basic structure was complete. Now came the complex part—the integration. Making sure every system connected properly, that energy flowed correctly, that the spatial compression field would generate without tearing the ship apart.
He worked faster now, confidence building as the design solidified.
Another forty minutes.
Verlin stepped back and examined the completed holographic mothership rotating before him. Thirty meters long in this miniature projection. Every system in place. Every connection verified.
He'd finished with eighteen minutes to spare.
"Done," Verlin said, looking up at the ceiling where he assumed sensors were watching.
Silence for a moment.
Then the door irised open.
Two figures entered the chamber, followed by the three dark purple constructs maintaining their protective formation.
The first was Drayen—Verlin recognized the voice before the sight. A towering crystalline form, 2.5 meters tall, with bioluminescent veins pulsing slowly through translucent geometric structures. Three points of light where eyes might be on a biological creature. If Verlin couln't hear the flowing of liquid in Drayen's body, he might have mistaken him for a construct.
The second was slender and tall, with elongated features and skin that shimmered with an inner luminescence. The one who'd questioned him about the propulsion systems during the interrogation.
"Impressive," Drayen said, his voice carrying that harmonic resonance even without the speakers. His internal light pulsed steadily as he examined the holographic mothership. "You completed the assembly in under two hours."
The luminescent figure—Thessa, Verlin recalled—moved closer to the projection, her shimmer brightening as she studied it. "The integration is correct. Energy distribution pathways are properly routed. The spatial compression generators are positioned exactly where they need to be to avoid structural stress."
She turned to face Verlin, her features unreadable but her luminescence suggesting... satisfaction?
"Your knowledge is genuine," she said. "This changes things."
Drayen's light pulsed in what might have been agreement. "Your capabilities could be invaluable to the Coalition's efforts against the Coration Empire. The technical intelligence you possess—understanding of their systems, their design philosophy, their weaknesses—this is information we've been unable to extract from salvage alone."
"Although," Thessa added, her shimmer dimming slightly, "we should note that this ship design is outdated compared to what we're currently facing. The motherships the Corations deploy now are significantly more advanced. But the foundational knowledge should help us close the capability gap."
Verlin went still.
"What do you mean, outdated?" he said slowly. "This ship design should be state of the art."
Thessa's luminescence pulsed. "About a decade ago, perhaps. But Coration technology has advanced by leaps and bounds over the last few years. The current generation of motherships operates on principles we're still trying to understand."
Verlin stayed silent for a moment, his mind working.
A decade.
The mothership on Earth had been cutting-edge when it arrived. Top of the line. The Corations' best.
"How long do you estimate the mothership has been on Earth?" he asked.
Thessa's features shifted—curiosity, perhaps. "Earth? Is that what the indigenous population called the planet?"
Verlin's response came quick, his tone sharper than intended. "How long?"
The three constructs immediately adjusted their positions, weapon systems humming with building energy.
Verlin noticed. He forced himself to relax, lowering his hands slightly.
"I apologize," he said, keeping his voice level. "I didn't mean to come off so impatient."
Thessa's shimmer brightened—acceptance, or perhaps amusement. "It's fine. To answer your question, we estimate approximately eight years. The mothership's been embedded in the Arctic permafrost for that long based on geological dating and metal oxidation patterns."
Eight years.
Verlin's mind raced.
Eight years since the mothership crashed. Eight years since the second invasion. Eight years since Radae. Since Chloe died. Since Desna—
Eight years he'd been unconscious.
He had mentally prepared for the possibility that significant time had passed. But knowing it for a fact—hearing the exact number—hit him differently than he'd expected.
Eight years.
At the back of his mind, he'd held onto a fragile hope. If not too much time had passed, maybe there was a chance to recover... something. He had hoped maybe some living beings had survived, or better yet some humans.
Whatever had survived the initial devastation would be long gone by now.
"I see," Verlin said quietly.
Drayen's internal light pulsed, studying him for a moment. Then the crystalline form straightened.
"Now that you're joining our ranks, you'll need to be formally registered into the Coalition," Drayen said. "With your improved status, you'll be allowed access to specific regions of the ship. Also, from now on, you'll be working alongside—and under—Thessa."
The Draeknith commander turned, his crystalline body chiming softly with the movement. "Thessa will handle your integration and assignment details."
Without waiting for a response, Drayen walked toward the door. The constructs parted to let him pass, then reformed their protective positions around Verlin and Thessa.
The door irised closed behind him.
Silence settled over the chamber.
Thessa's luminescence pulsed steadily as she studied Verlin, her elongated features unreadable.
"Given your knowledge of Coration technology," she said, "we can compare the capabilities you're familiar with to the updated systems we've encountered. That way, you can help explain the discrepancies and the direction of Coration technological advancement."
Verlin nodded.
Silence again.
Thessa's shimmer dimmed slightly. "What does that mean? Are you in agreement?"
"Yes," Verlin said.
He paused, then continued. "Will there be a chance for me to document the beings that existed on Earth? Sentient and otherwise."
Thessa's features shifted—surprise, perhaps.
Verlin pressed on. "I want to document the existence of humans. All the species I can remember. I want them recorded."
He thought of a phrase he'd heard once—that people die twice. Once when they physically die, and again when they're forgotten.
He didn't want that.
Sure, if he could manage to return to normal—reach a sun, remove the dagger, regain his full capabilities—he would likely never forget them. His memory would be perfect again. Permanent.
But he now knew better than to assume his continued existence was assured.
Better to add them to the records of a multitude of civilizations. Let humanity exist in the Coalition's archives. Let them be remembered by someone, even if it wasn't him.
Thessa's luminescence brightened. "That should be fine. I'm sure Scholar Kellis would be interested in the particulars of an extinct civilization."
The words came out matter-of-fact, almost dismissive. Extinct civilization. Like it was just another data point. Another entry in a catalog of dead worlds.
But she'd said yes.
"Thank you," Verlin said.
Thessa's shimmer pulsed once—acknowledgment. "We'll begin tomorrow. For now, you'll be escorted to new quarters. Larger accommodations. With access to a terminal for your documentation work."
She gestured toward the door. The three constructs shifted their formation, preparing to escort him.
Verlin took one last look at the holographic mothership floating in the center of the chamber—a relic from eight years ago, assembled from memory.
Then he turned and followed the constructs out.
As they walked through the crystalline corridors, Verlin's mind was already working.
Humans. He'd start with humans. Physical description. Culture. Language. History—what he knew of it. Then the other species. Animals. Plants. Ecosystems.
He'd write it all down.
Every detail he could remember.
So that somewhere in the universe, in some Coalition archive, humanity would still exist.
Even if only as words on a screen.
It wasn't much.
But it was something.
(Sorry for the late update, I had exams the past week. There isn't really much to this chapter but...)