Message origin: Cryogenics Lab Module 57. Partial transmission. Decoding now."
Kael's breath caught. He moved instinctively toward the console, heart hammering as if his body knew the name before his mind could place it.
"Module 57… that was part of the Dagger, wasn't it?" he asked, stepping closer to the screen, eyes fixed on the pulsing signal icon—a rhythmic heartbeat in the digital dark.
"Affirmative," the AI responded without hesitation. "Module 57 was part of the Prospector's Dagger's research array—cryogenics and stasis systems. Detached during alarm phase, timestamped six minutes before core detonation. Last recorded status: powered, autonomous drift."
A ripple passed through Kael's chest, like the echo of a long-forgotten warning. Six minutes. That tiny window might've been the difference between survival and annihilation. Module 57 had broken away just in time. If the AI's logs were accurate—and they always were—it meant the lab could have remained intact all this time.
The comms console stuttered, fragmenting and reshaping bursts of static and noise until they began forming the edges of a voice.
"…This is—kssh—Dr. Arlen Voss… Cryogenics Module 57… emergency override… any survivors, respond…"
Kael straightened. The name didn't ring a bell. He hadn't known every scientist aboard the Dagger—certainly not the deep-specialty researchers housed in modular subarrays—but that voice had weight. Urgency. And something else. Strain. As if every word came at a cost.
"Patch it clean," Kael said sharply. "Try waveform smoothing."
The AI chimed with a processing tone. "Filtering distortion. Audio stream reassembled. Connection is unstable. Signal degraded by distance and interference. Attempting reply handshake."
Kael didn't wait for confirmation. He leaned over the console and pressed the transmit key.
"This is Kael Verrick. Technical engineer. Survivor. You're not alone."
There was a long pause, maybe three seconds—but in vacuum and silence, it stretched into eternity. Then, at last, a reply came—low and trembling, like someone had just remembered how to breathe.
"…God. Someone's out there. We thought—" The voice cracked, faltering on the edge of disbelief. "Did you say Kael Verrick?"
"Yes," Kael said, voice steady despite the pounding in his ears. "Technical systems and engineering. I was on station assignment pre-event. Where are you transmitting from? Are you safe?"
"Cryogenics Module 57," the voice confirmed, growing steadier by the word. "This is Dr. Arlen Voss. We've got fourteen personnel alive. Stasis chambers mostly intact. I'm awake. So are one of the med techs and two military. The rest are still frozen. We've been diverting every watt to cryo support. Shielding's degraded. Comms were the last priority."
Kael turned to the AI. "Telemetry?"
"Cryogenics Lab Module 57 currently adrift on wide elliptical arc," the AI replied. "Orbit intersects debris pocket edge in three hours, twenty-six minutes. Current distance: 41.2 kilometers. External signature stable. Power output consistent with sealed cryo systems. No active propulsion."
Kael brought up the overlay, studying the vector paths and field models. The cryo module's path looped around the outer band of the debris field—not outside it, but skimming the edge. One wrong move, and it could destabilize the entire drift pocket or spiral out of control. Still, it was within reach.
"You're within the field bubble," Kael said into the mic. "I can get to you—but I need time to clear the path. Don't change drift velocity or orientation."
Voss replied quickly, urgency edging back into his tone. "Understood. Scrubbers are nearing failure. Cryo cores are holding but only just. This module wasn't designed to survive long detached."
"I know," Kael said, already turning back to the console. "Stay sealed. Do not initiate internal thaw cycles. Not until we have a hardline comm link and a backup power node ready."
His mind was already racing—calculating structural tolerances, debris dispersion models, burst pattern vectors. He could reach them, but not with the pod alone. The drone would have to go first—chart the gaps, anchor a path, test the stability.
"AI," Kael said quickly, "begin mapping a secure trajectory. Launch a tether drone with atmospheric interface and live telemetry. Primary goal: establish a comm relay. Then we align the pod."
"Calculating," the AI responded. "Gravitational wobble minimized at five-point correction arc. Waypoints gamma through epsilon established. Support drone prepping launch sequence. Estimated launch in ninety-two seconds."
Kael tapped in adjustments manually, refining the predictive drift models and setting fallback positions in case anything shifted out there. The margin for error was razor-thin.
The AI continued its diagnostic aloud. "Communications relay at 92%. Navigation stable. Signal strength: rising. Launch readiness confirmed."
On the external camera feed, Kael watched the small drone detach from the docking ring. Its stabilizers fired in faint bursts of blue light, nudging it gently forward into the void.
It moved with precision—delicate, determined. A thread of motion in a sea of stillness.
The module was a distant flicker on the monitor. No detail, no structure yet visible. But Kael knew what it was. He remembered the cryo modules—tall vertical tanks along the inner spine, the quiet hiss of the stasis fields, the faint blue light that danced through the chambers.
He leaned over the console again.
"To Module 57: Sit tight. Help is coming."
A pause followed. Then Voss's voice came back—softer now. Steady. "Copy that. We'll be ready."
The channel closed, but the signal remained strong. Persistent. Real.
Kael sat back in his seat. His hands trembled slightly from adrenaline. The pod around him still hummed, steady and warm, lit now by functioning panels and reinforced bulkheads. The fusion core's heartbeat had become something comforting.
Outside, the drone crept across the stars—just one sliver of light among millions, heading toward another island in the dark.
The overlay flickered again, adjusting for drift. If the calculations held, he could reorient his pod along the gamma vector, cross over to epsilon, and use the drone's beacon tether to keep both paths anchored. It wouldn't be elegant. It might be dangerous.
But it was possible.
He stood, stretching his stiff legs, and walked slowly to the sealed panel where the auxiliary AI core still lay—silent. Watching. A reminder of choices still to be made.
He hadn't trusted it. Not yet. Maybe never.
But now there were fourteen more lives on the line. Fourteen more reasons to get it right.
Kael returned to the main console and began prepping the pod for manual thrust corrections. The AI would handle the finesse, but someone had to choose the timing. Someone had to push the button when the arc was right.
The drone's telemetry updated: halfway there.
Temperature differential minimal. Radiation levels nominal. Micro-impact risk: low.
Kael exhaled.
They were going to make it.
For the first time in days, Kael Verrick wasn't alone.
And neither were they.