The pod's lights dimmed, then slowly pulsed back to life—stable, steady. Kael exhaled and leaned back in the worn seat, letting the silence settle. For once, the hum of the systems sounded less like a warning and more like a heartbeat. Familiar. Controlled.
"Status report," he said.
"Communications relay at 72% operational. Long-range capability expected within the hour. Internal diagnostics continue. Structural repairs progressing—hull integrity improved by 18%. Life support: nominal. Navigation: stabilized via predictive drift. Fuel reserves: 63%."
Kael nodded. Measurable progress. Forward momentum, not just survival.
The AI's repair process was rerouting subsystems through the new civilian-grade fusion core, bolstering redundancies and breathing life into panels that had long flickered with warning signs. Sparks danced quietly behind the walls where the newly integrated salvaged components synced into place. The pod wasn't whole—but it was healing.
He stood, stretching out muscles stiff from confinement. The auxiliary AI core sat in its cradle near the rear hatch, silent and sealed. He hadn't touched it since moving it in. It wasn't time.
Instead, Kael turned to the main console, flicking through the communications diagnostic. A blinking yellow icon marked the signal: short-range, unsteady. But the calibration curve was flattening—oscillators syncing, relays aligning. Another hour or so, and it could punch a message into deep orbit.
"AI, begin pre-broadcast diagnostics. I want to know the second we're viable to transmit."
"Confirmed. Antenna array cycling. Modulation spectrum test beginning."
Outside, the pod remained nestled in a stable debris pocket—suspended like a mote inside a crystal sphere. Around them floated the shattered dead: hull plates, crumpled escape capsules, half-melted engine cores. But nothing moved. Not in here. Not unless something knocked it loose.
Kael watched the slow ballet outside. "Begin total hull assessment. I want every breach mapped and every fracture sealed. No more emergency patches."
"Reordering task queue. Hull plating restoration estimated at 41% completion within current material reserves. Additional salvage recommended to increase long-term survivability."
"Route the drone for short spirals. Nothing beyond the pocket. I don't want to gamble stability."
"Spooling short-range pattern. Defensive fallback plotted."
The hauler drone detached with a hiss, its blinking nav-lights flickering as it drifted forward like a cautious scout. Kael turned back to the workstation and called up external mapping data. Somewhere out there was the rest of the engineering station—buried, maybe, but not empty.
But it wasn't just salvage on his mind. Something else had caught his attention earlier: a smooth, uniform shape just outside the safe zone.
He tapped the screen.
A cargo container. Industrial-grade. Drifting at the edge of the stable shell. Not from the refinery, based on its markings. It rotated slowly in the void, glinting where its paint had peeled.
"Unmarked container detected. Drift rate: 0.2 meters per second. Mass estimate: six metric tons. Structural integrity: intact. Composition: freight alloy."
"Contents?"
"Unknown. Internal echo scan suggests partial fill—civilian config. Temperature consistent with sealed chamber."
Could be rations. Could be components. Could be worse. But anything was better than nothing right now.
Kael tapped the screen again and marked it.
"Put it in the queue. After we stabilize core systems, I want to bring that in."
"Acknowledged. Minimal risk of destabilizing debris zone with slow-drift capture approach."
He turned away and began manually assisting with interior fixes. He stripped melted panels, bolted in salvaged ones. Replaced the wiring in a cracked junction conduit. Even restored a secondary vent system for improved airflow.
Two hours later, the AI's voice returned.
"Communications relay now functional. Signal strength: 68%. Long-range broadcast capable. Ready to transmit."
Kael stopped.
This was it.
He moved to the console, hovering over the transmit command. His message was already queued: emergency beacon burst, encrypted ident-tag, general distress code embedded. The kind of scream that could cross light-hours if the array held.
He pressed the button.
A low hum surged through the pod. A green bar pulsed, then turned solid.
"Pulse transmitted. Repeating signal every five minutes. Awaiting response."
Silence followed. Not the broken kind. The waiting kind. The kind that hung on possibilities.
"Log the timestamp. Keep scanning for bounce-backs."
"Monitoring all channels. Response window: twelve to sixty hours."
The drone returned not long after, this time with a sealed crate marked with emergency repair symbols. Inside were tools: structural welders, hardened cabling, high-adhesion hull patches—and, miraculously, a redundant capacitor stack.
Kael nearly grinned. He hadn't smiled in days.
The AI chimed again.
"Estimated structural integrity upon full installation: 83%. Pod will be flight-worthy within acceptable parameters."
"Do it."
"Beginning coordinated integration."
He left the AI to its work and turned his attention back to the drifting cargo container.
"Time to catch a prize," he muttered.
⸻
The drone launched again, slower this time. No bursts—just course adjustments. It moved like a spider through fog, looping gently toward the unmarked container. Kael monitored from the console, ready to cut the operation short at the first sign of shifting mass beyond the pocket.
"Contact established. Container stable. Latching tether engaged."
The drone's clamp locked onto the container's upper mount. It began reeling it in with smooth, deliberate tension. No abrupt shifts. No tremors through the debris field. The containment pocket remained undisturbed.
Kael watched the container draw near—dark, scratched, but whole.
"Container docked with pod hull. Initiating scan."
"Open it."
"Warning: unknown internal contents. Proceed?"
"Proceed."
There was a hiss of vacuum release as the panel seal disengaged. The drone's internal arm extended, reaching for the latch. With a tug, the hatch creaked open.
Inside: four modular crates, each sealed and insulated. The AI scanned them one by one.
"Two crates contain nutrient packs. One contains emergency medical supplies. One contains unknown hardware—marked for industrial fabrication."
Kael approached and pried open the final crate himself. Inside, wrapped in foam: a portable hydrospanner, micro-actuator rings, a set of pristine diagnostic tablets, and—best of all—a signal amplification node.
"Score," he muttered.
"Amplification node compatible with current transmission array. Projected signal boost: 43%."
"Install it. Then we try again."
"Affirmative."
⸻
Three hours later, the pod was transformed.
The hull had been sealed to 85% integrity. Systems were green across the board. The drone had stowed the excess supplies and returned to standby. Communications were powered through the node, reaching deeper than before.
Kael stood in the center of the pod, sweat drying on his neck. Tired. Wired. But grounded.
He was about to sit when the console chimed.
Once. Then again.
A signal.
He froze.
"Incoming reply. Partial burst. Scrambled."
"Decrypt it."
The AI worked quickly. The screen flickered.
"RECEIVED—DRIFT VECTOR LOCATED—IDENTIFYING… SIGNAL TRACE FROM CRYOGENICS LAB MODULE 57—REQUEST RESPONSE…"
Kael's blood went cold.
That name. That module.
Detached, jettisoned during the alarms. Gone—or so he'd thought.
"Is it genuine?" he asked quietly.
"Signal origin matches known Cryogenics Lab Module 57 beacon signature. Likelihood of forgery: under 3%."
He stared at the screen.
Not alone. Not anymore.
Not safe, either.
"Send reply. Encrypt. Minimal data. Tell them… tell them I'm alive."
"Broadcasting…"
Outside the pod, the stars didn't blink. The debris drifted on in silence.
But Kael's world had shifted again.