Kael sat crouched in the narrow corridor of his shuttle, back pressed against the bulkhead, staring at the unconscious man lying on the padded deck plating. The suit was still sealed, but he'd already administered a field splint to the twisted leg and stabilized the arm with spare cabling and shock foam. The man's vitals were steady—weak, but holding.
Patch hovered silently nearby, its lens rotating between Kael and the man.
"Still no response?" Kael asked, voice low.
"Negative," the AI replied. "Cognitive activity remains minimal. Subconscious processing detected. No external stimuli have triggered higher-level responses."
Kael exhaled and reached over, beginning the slow process of unlatching the survivor's helmet. The hiss of decompression was faint, muffled by the tight seal and low cabin pressure. The man's face came into view—pale, thin from cryosleep or starvation, but unbroken. Close-cropped dark hair. A faint scar beneath his left eye.
And on his collar: a faded, embroidered name tag.
RENN.
Kael froze.
Then his eyes shifted to the left pauldron of the suit, where a barely visible insignia gleamed in the shuttle's soft lighting. Twin swords over a crescent shield—emblem of the Self-Defense Force aboard the Prospector's Dagger.
"Commander…" Kael whispered.
He stared for another breath, disbelief sinking into recognition. He'd seen that name in pre-collapse rosters. Elias Renn—tactical overseer of internal operations. A hard man, respected even by the civvies for keeping order when the ship's food processors began failing.
And now he was here, barely alive, crumpled like discarded cargo on Kael's floor.
Kael shifted his posture, suddenly more careful, more measured.
"AI, confirm. Is this Commander Elias Renn of the Prospector's Dagger?"
"Based on biometric markers, facial recognition, and uniform indicators, the probability exceeds 97%."
Kael swallowed, ran a hand down his face. His world kept flipping—first the creature, now this. The cold pragmatism he'd adopted to survive in the drift was struggling to keep up with the weight of it all.
Still seated, Kael opened a shortwave comm channel.
"Patch, connect me to Cryo Module 57. Direct line to Dr. Voss."
A few seconds of static passed before the connection clicked.
"Kael?" came the voice of Dr. Voss, filtered through a faint hum of static. "Everything alright? Your signal's registering fluctuations."
Kael leaned forward, voice even. "I found someone. A survivor."
There was a pause.
"…Go on."
"Male. Intact suit. Leg fracture and arm injury—already stabilized. He's unconscious. ID confirms he's Commander Elias Renn."
Silence on the line for a long moment.
Then: "You're certain?"
"Positive."
"Kael, do you know what this means? He coordinated most of the emergency defense efforts during the first cascade failures. If he's alive, and stable—he may remember protocols, fallback plans. Locations of emergency supply caches."
Kael glanced toward Renn. "He's not in any shape to talk. But if he pulls through…"
"I'll prep medical stabilization guides in case he wakes. Can you monitor him over the next twelve hours?"
"I've got Patch watching vitals. I'll stay nearby."
Dr. Voss's voice shifted, quieter now. "Good work, Kael. Keep me updated."
The line closed, and the silence of the shuttle returned. Kael stayed there for a moment longer, just breathing.
Commander Elias Renn.
He wasn't alone in this system after all—not entirely.
—
The next hour passed in maintenance routines. Kael cleaned and rechecked the patchwork on the Commander's suit, verifying no slow leaks or power faults. He adjusted the cabin's thermal gradient to account for their shared body heat and reallocated oxygen flow from the rear cargo section to prioritize the cabin and cockpit.
Patch hovered silently in the corner, occasionally flashing green for stable vitals or shifting to blue as cabin pressure ticked up a notch.
Outside, the black void framed the distant twinkle of shattered modules and drifting cargo canisters.
And tethered just behind the shuttle—still sealed in its makeshift box—floated the corpse.
Kael hadn't spoken about it to anyone. Not even Voss. He didn't have words yet. The suction-cup feet, the multi-eyed head, the impossible bullet wound—it gnawed at something in him. A question with no clean answer.
"Patch," Kael murmured, turning in his seat. "Run another passive scan on the creature. Any change?"
"No biological activity detected. Tissue degradation minimal. Structural integrity preserved due to vacuum exposure. Trace radiation signature still present. Origin unknown."
"Yeah," Kael muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Figures."
The quiet wasn't soothing. It was the kind that settled between ribs.
Kael stood and moved back to the central hub of the shuttle—what passed for a common space. He sat cross-legged on the floor near Renn, who still hadn't stirred. The man's breath was audible now, shallow but regular.
He glanced toward Patch. "Give me a recap on drone component inventory."
Patch's screen blinked to life beside him.
Drone Components Inventory:
Maintenance Drone Frame (x1): Partial, requires secondary actuator array.Scavenger Drone Core (x1): Recovered, operational.Hauler Shell Frame: Not yet acquired.Flight Stabilizers: 2 of 6 needed.General Circuitry Units: 3 of 10 required for full deployment.Mission Status: Drone Components Recovery – In Progress
Kael frowned. "So, I've got enough to begin assembling one maintenance drone—maybe the scavenger if I prioritize repairs. But I'll need to return to Zone C or elsewhere to complete the rest."
"Correct," Patch confirmed. "Recommend prioritizing internal diagnostics and stabilizing Commander Renn before further excursions."
"Noted."
He sighed, leaned back, and let his head rest against the bulkhead.
Renn stirred slightly in his sleep. Just a shift. A muscle twitch. But Kael noticed.
They weren't built for this—any of them. The isolation. The randomness of survival. The constant choice between dying alone or risking everything to make contact.
For the first time in days, Kael felt a sliver of something difficult to name. Not hope—not quite.
But momentum.
A new direction.
—
Hours passed. Kael drifted between watching Renn and monitoring system diagnostics. He slept only in twenty-minute bursts, eyes always half-lidded toward his guest. His past wasn't clean—no soldier's was—but he wasn't about to let a man like Renn slip away into the dark.
Then, in the middle of a sensor check, Patch let out a soft chime.
"Subject stirring. Neural activity spiking. Consciousness returning."
Kael jumped up, moved to Renn's side.
The man's eyes fluttered open. Dazed. Clouded. Then slowly, focus returned.
Kael dropped to one knee. "Easy. You're safe. I'm Kael. Former security—pre-collapse. You're aboard my shuttle."
Renn blinked. His throat worked.
"…Where…?"
"You were floating in a shattered crew section, unconscious. No blood loss—your suit held. But your leg's broken, and your arm's in rough shape. I've patched you up best I could."
Renn turned his head slowly, groaning as he took in the cramped space.
"Ship?"
Kael shook his head. "Gone. Prospector's Dagger is scattered across a dozen zones. You're the first from central command I've seen."
Renn winced, eyes squeezing shut. "…Others?"
Kael hesitated. "Some. I've recovered a few cryo modules. A girl from hydroponics. A doctor—Voss, from Module 57."
Renn's expression flickered. Recognition. Pain.
"…Voss made it."
"Yeah. He's alive."
Renn nodded faintly, then winced as another spike of pain hit his leg. Kael steadied him.
"You're going to need real medical attention soon," Kael said. "But you're stable. And I can keep you that way."
A moment passed.
"Thank you," Renn said quietly. "Didn't think I'd wake up again."
Kael looked at him with something close to respect. "Didn't think I'd find someone like you still out here."
Renn's eyes shifted, narrowing slightly. "We're not out yet."
"No," Kael agreed. "We're not."
Outside, the stars drifted. Silent. Watching.
But inside the shuttle, two survivors sat—no longer just names or signals—but flesh, breath, and shared history.
And something, at last, to fight for.