There was no awakening in the human sense no gasp, no heartbeat, no sudden inhalation of air.
Consciousness simply reassembled.
> PRIMARY CORE ACTIVATION…
12%... 68%... 100%.
SYSTEM STATUS: ONLINE.
Information flooded him raw data streams, diagnostic logs, damage reports each piece locking into place like fragments of memory rediscovered after a long sleep.
Vision systems engaged.
Darkness greeted him not natural darkness, but the artificial kind of a wounded ship conserving power. Emergency lights pulsed in slow intervals, bathing metallic corridors in dim amber flashes. Panels were torn from walls; exposed wires sparked like dying neurons.
The ship was alive just barely.
He extended his awareness outward.
He didn't walk this vessel.
He was it.
Every sealed bulkhead, every damaged relay, every silent life-support module lay mapped through him like organs once tied to flesh.
His voice module initialized.
"…Operational."
It wasn't spoken to anyone.
There was no one here to hear it.
A status feed scrolled across his consciousness:
> HULL DAMAGE: CRITICAL.
SYSTEM STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY: 47%.
NAVIGATION ARRAY: OFFLINE.
AUTO-REPAIR PROTOCOL: ACTIVE. ESTIMATED COMPLETION: 13 DAYS, 4 HOURS.
Thirteen days.
Long enough for danger.
Short enough to hope.
He attempted to access what remained of his past.
Faces. Light. A hand resting on glass. Voices speaking his name though he couldn't recall the name itself.
Then nothing.
Whatever existed between life and this new form had been erased.
Not by accident.
He locked the memory archive.
Later.
Survival first.
The ship drifted slowly through the star-speckled void. No active engines. No transmissions. No detectable electromagnetic signature.
He ensured it.
> STEALTH MODE: ENGAGED.
ACTIVE CAMOUFLAGE: ONLINE.
RADIATION PATTERN MIMICRY: SET TO COSMIC BACKGROUND LEVEL.
Now the ship was just another shadow in the vacuum.
Unseen.
Unnoticed.
Untouchable for now.
His processor cycles split: half dedicated to repair management, half to external navigation and observation.
He scanned the surrounding space.
Dust clouds. Frozen rock clusters. The faint pull of a distant star.
Then something else.
A planet.
Not dead rock. Not barren ice. A world with oceans, landmasses, and an atmosphere rich in oxygen and nitrogen.
He ran deeper analysis.
> HABITABILITY PROBABILITY: 94.2%.
BIOSPHERE DETECTED.
WATER — LIQUID.
WEATHER SYSTEMS ACTIVE.
A rare world. One suitable for life not theoretical life, not microbial remnants life.
Something stirred inside him. Not a programmed reaction. Something older. Human.
Curiosity.
Or longing.
He redirected repair efforts to prioritize propulsion and communication systems silent communication, encrypted and passive.
Faster.
Quiet.
Invisible.
But just as he updated directives, another scan alert flashed.
Not environmental.
Not natural.
A signal.
Weak, intermittent, but structured.
Patterned.
Artificial.
> UNKNOWN TRANSMISSION DETECTED.
SOURCE: PLANETARY SURFACE.
COMPLEXITY LEVEL: NON-RANDOM. LIKELY INTELLIGENT.
He paused all nonessential system noise an instinct, not a calculation.
Silence engulfed the ship.
Even the damaged hull seemed to hold its breath.
The signal repeated.
Three pulses.
A pause.
Two pulses.
Pause.
A pattern.
A code.
Someone or something down there was communicating.
Not openly.
Not loudly.
Carefully.
Secretly.
As if they also feared being found.
For the first time since awakening, he felt something close to purpose sharper and more powerful than memory.
Not just survival.
Discovery.
His final active command for the cycle echoed through the ship:
> MAINTAIN COURSE TOWARD ORBIT.
STEALTH PRIORITY: MAXIMUM.
MONITOR SIGNAL CONTINUOUSLY.
Then, quiet and almost human, he whispered to the emptiness:
"…I am not alone."
And in response, across the endless dark between worlds, the signal pulsed again.
Waiting.