Elias Thorne


    I spend days, half-unconscious and half awake.


    When awake, I relish how big and spacious the med bay is. I could run laps around it if I wanted to. Small laps, for sure, but laps all the same. After two months trapped in an airlock barely large enough to lie down in, the simple luxury of space makes my chest ache with something I can''t name.


    When asleep, I do not even so much as dream. The medicated darkness is complete. Mercifully empty. No visions of dust storms tearing through canvas shelters, no echoes of failing life support alarms, no imagined conversations with the dead. Just nothing. I''m grateful for this small mercy.


    Three days later, Greaves declares it''s time for me to leave the med bay.


    "Your vitals are stable enough," he says, scanning through my charts. "And lying in that bed isn''t doing your muscle recovery any favors."


    I watch his face as he works, the careful concentration in his eyes. Harlow Greaves, always meticulous. Always focused. During training, we used to joke that he could perform surgery in his sleep.


    Now, his precision feels like the only solid thing the universe. I see now why he adopted this bedside manner.


    As he helps me sit up, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I relish the feeling of having room to stretch my legs. The simple act of extending my limbs fully—something impossible in the cramped airlock where I spent the last months of my isolation—sends an almost painful relief through my joints.


    "Take it slow," he says, steadying my arm as I slide forward. "Your muscle mass is still critically low. You need to rebuild strength gradually."


    My bare feet touch the floor, cold and smooth, legs trembling under my own negligible weight.


    "That''s it," Greaves encourages, supporting me as I transfer weight to my feet. "Just a few steps today."


    The first step sends shock waves of protest through atrophied muscles. The second isn''t much better. By the fourth, I''m breathing hard, sweat beading on my forehead from the simplest movement humans are designed to perform. My legs burn like I''m trying to run a marathon, not walk across a room.


    "Don''t push too hard," Greaves says, but there''s approval in his voice. "Your body needs time to remember."


    But that''s the problem. My body remembers too much.


    We make it to the door and back, barely twenty meters round trip. It might as well be a marathon. By the time I''m seated on the edge of the bed again, my heart is hammering and my legs are liquid.


    "Good," Greaves says, checking my pulse. His fingers press against my wrist, counting the beats. "Really good for day one. Tomorrow we''ll try for the mess hall."


    The mess hall. A place with endless amounts of food. The thought sends a sudden, powerful jolt through me—an almost painful longing that makes my mouth water instantly. Real food. Not emergency rations. Not the bland paste I''ve lived on for months, carefully measured out in shrinking portions as supplies dwindled.


    "We could try today," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. My body, recognizing the proximity of actual nourishment, seems ready to override even the worst of my physical limitations.


    "I doubt it," Greaves says, looking at me critically. "Maybe if you''d expressed that desire before we went around the room."


    I nod, embarrassed, and look away. On the deadworld, it didn''t matter how critical my condition was — if I had to move, I had to move. Here, I''m allowed to rest and recuperate until I''m ready.


    "The crew wants to see you," Greaves continues, helping me lie back. "They''ve been asking. I''ve kept them at bay while you stabilized, but—"


    "It''s fine," I cut him off. The idea of facing them—their questions, their pity—makes my skin crawl, but I know it''s inevitable. "Tomorrow. With the walking."


    "I''ll let them know." He adjusts something on my IV. The clear liquid flows steadily into my veins, carrying nutrients my body had been starved of for months. "For now, we''re moving to the next phase of your nutrition protocol. Actual food, if you can call it that."


    My pulse quickens immediately at the word "food." The response is autonomic, primal. Eight months of near-starvation has rewired my brain to respond to nutrition like a drug.


    Greaves pulls up a tray from his medical cart, revealing a small bowl of what looks like thin, pale porridge. The smell hits me—subtle, bland, but unmistakably food—and my stomach clenches with an intensity that''s almost painful. I have to swallow hard against the sudden rush of saliva in my mouth.


    "Start slow," Greaves advises, placing a spoon in my hand. "Your digestive system needs to relearn how to process solid nutrients."


    I stare at the spoon, suddenly aware that I can''t remember the last time I used one. Surely on one of my last meals before the crash. After, we only drank nutrient paste straight from emergency ration packets, conserving every calorie of energy.


    The weight of the utensil feels strange. The first spoonful trembles on its way to my mouth. The vanilla taste is plain, inoffensive, but after months of survival rations, it''s almost overwhelming in its richness. I close my eyes involuntarily as the warmth spreads across my tongue.


    A small, involuntary sound escapes my throat—something between a sigh and a moan.


    "Good?" Greaves asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.


    I nod, already reaching for another spoonful. My hand steadies with each movement, muscle memory returning as hunger overrides weakness.


    My body responds with an almost euphoric rush—real calories, real nourishment, not the carefully rationed scraps I''ve subsisted on for so long.


    Then, unbidden, Laurent''s face appears in my mind. The way she looked the last time I saw her eat—thin and weak, forcing down half a ration pack with trembling hands.


    The way she insisted I take her share when she knew she wouldn''t survive another day.


    My hand freezes halfway to my mouth, the spoon suddenly heavy.


    "Take it," she''d insisted, her voice barely audible over the airlock''s failing circulation system. "I''m not hungry."


    A lie. We were hungry. Constantly, desperately. The kind of hunger that gnaws at your spine, that wakes you from fitful sleep, that makes you calculate and recalculate how many days less you might survive if you added just a little more to your portion.


    “Maya, don’t be ridiculous,” I spluttered. “It’s not thanksgiving dinner, it’s half a nutrition packet. Just eat it.”


    "You can still make it, Elias,” she whispered, ignoring me completely. “You have to eat.”


    “Thorne? What’s wrong?” Greaves''s voice sounds distant.


    My heart sank to my feet.


    This is how the others talked when they were about to go.


    “No, Maya, none of that,” I said shakily. “You can still make it too, yeah? You just need a little food and you’ll be right as rain,” I say, tipping the nutrient packet near her mouth.


    She turned her head away, a small movement that seemed to cost her enormous effort. "Don''t waste it," she said, her voice firmer than it had been in days. She smiled then—a ghastly shadow of her old commanding expression. "That''s an order, Science Officer Thorne.”


    "You can''t pull rank on nutrition," I argued, desperation creeping into my voice. "The protocol clearly states—"


    "Protocol?" Her laugh was barely more than an exhale. "We''re past protocol, Elias."


    I knew she was right. A deep, animal part of me had known it for days, watching her grow weaker, her breathing more labored, resenting every calorie I fed her failing body.


    "Please," she said, her eyes closing briefly with fatigue. "Don''t make me argue. I don''t have the strength."


    I hesitated, the packet suspended between us. My hand trembled with hunger, with shame, with grief.


    "You get the data home," she whispered. “Tell them what happened here. Make our deaths mean something.”


    I nodded, mute with misery.


    "Good," she said, and I watched her relax, as if passing this final duty to me had lifted a weight from her. "Now eat.”


    And God help me, I did. I took the half-empty packet from her hands and poured it down my throat, the tasteless paste like ambrosia to my starved body.


    Bennett watched, peace settling over her gaunt features.


    "That''s it," she murmured, her voice growing fainter. "You hold on until they come." She smiled again as her eyes drifted closed. "I''m just going to rest a bit," she said. "Wake me for my watch."


    Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    But we both knew there would be no more watches for Captain Maya Bennett.


    ”Of course, Captain,” I said, trying to hide my wobbling voice from her. I settled down next to her and pulled her onto my chest. “You just rest.”


    She slipped into sleep as naturally as she''d done everything else in her life—with quiet dignity and unflinching courage.


    And I sat there, the empty ration packet crumpled in my fist, the calories already burning in my stomach, hating myself for how good it felt to be fed a double-portion today.


    An hour later, her heartbeat stopped in my arms.


    I set the spoon down, my appetite vanishing as quickly as it had surged.


    How dare I enjoy this meal.


    "Elias," Greaves says, his voice pitched low and steady. "You have to eat."


    Bennett would be pleased to know Greaves was taking up her cause.


    My vision blurs, the med bay dissolving into smears of white and gray. My hands tremble.


    "Think of it as medicine if you have to," he coaxes, his tone shifting to something more clinical. Clinical is safer. Clinical doesn''t probe the raw edges of grief. "Your body needs the calories."


    Medicine. I can manage that.


    I pick up the spoon again, mechanical now, and force down three more mouthfuls before setting it aside.


    The taste that had been so wonderful moments ago now tastes like ash.


    "Good," Greaves says, taking the bowl away. "We''ll try again in a few hours."


    I nod, suddenly exhausted beyond measure.


    "Rest," Greaves says, dimming the lights. "Tomorrow will be another step."


    The door slides shut behind him, leaving me alone with the soft beeping of medical equipment and the distant hum of the ship.


    Above me, the living continue their routines. Below, in cold storage, Bennett, Laurent, and Rivera lie silent, their stories complete.


    And here I am, trapped in the space between—no longer dying but not yet living.


    I wonder if, like food, I’ll ever be able to enjoy being alive without guilt.


    <hr>


    It takes me fifteen minutes to walk the forty meters from med bay, Greaves hovering at my right side, ready to catch me if my body fails. Each step is a negotiation between willpower and physical reality. My legs — once strong enough to carry sampling equipment across uneven terrain for hours — now tremble under my own negligible weight.


    By the time we reach the mess hall, sweat has soaked through the ship-issue clothing they''ve provided me. My breathing is labored, but I refuse to stop and rest.


    "Steady," Greaves murmurs, voice calibrated to the perfect clinical mix of encouragement and concern, as the mess hall door slides open.


    Four faces turn toward me—the complete crew of the Radiant Hope.


    Captain Margot Raines sits at the head of the table, her expression controlled but alert. I remember her from training exercises, always first to spot potential hazards in simulation, always three steps ahead in emergency protocols.


    Beside her is Science Officer Vance Arden, the ship''s biochemist and the Radiant Hope’s equivalent of me.


    And across from him, Engineering Officer Darryl Moss, the military terraforming and spaceflight engineer, his normally animated face unnaturally still as he takes in my appearance.


    "Dr. Thorne," Raines says formally, rising from her seat. "Welcome aboard the Radiant Hope."


    I manage a nod, unable to summon the energy for proper military protocol. As a civilian scientist, they never sat right with me in the first place, and eight months on a deadworld have stripped away any desire to put up appearances. The social contract feels as alien as everything else.


    "Let''s get you seated," Greaves says, guiding me to an empty chair.


    The simple act of sitting feels like a relief so profound my knees nearly buckle. The chair is padded. A small luxury that nearly breaks me. I spent months sitting on metal floors, on makeshift platforms fashioned from debris, on anything that would elevate me from the airlock''s frigid surface. Now, this simple comfort feels like an obscenity.


    The others keep staring, their expressions a mixture of pity, curiosity, and something harder to name. Recognition, maybe, of how easily our positions could have been reversed. There but for the grace of God go they.


    "How are you feeling?" Moss asks, breaking the awkward silence.


    The question is so disconnected from reality I almost laugh. How am I feeling?


    "I''m alive," I say flatly.


    “Better that than the alternative,” Raines says crisply. “Wouldn’t you agree?”


    The silence stretches a beat too long.


    “We''ve mapped our return trajectory to Earth,” Raines continues. “Transit time approximately three months. We''ll maintain communication with Global Space Agency throughout, though there will be the usual lag at this distance."


    Three months.


    Rescue took eight months, but transit back to Earth will only take three.


    I don’t need to ask why. I already know the explanation — the orbits were fucking terrible. I’m sure they pushed the Hope’s engine as hard as they could, but there’s only so fast one can traverse three fucking star systems.


    My fist clenches underneath the table.


    It’s not their fault, I tell myself firmly, So don’t you dare flip your can at them. They’re just as upset about it as you are.


    Raines pauses, sensing my distress but not knowing the cause. She looks to Greaves uncertainly.


    I take as deep a breath as I can muster. I force my fingers to relax, one by one, a technique Laurent taught me during particularly stressful simulations.


    "It''s a straightforward journey," Arden offers, clearly trying to move past the awkward moment. "We''ll make a small course correction at the halfway point, but otherwise, it''s mostly automated."


    Raines nods, visibly regrouping. "Dr. Greaves has designed a rehabilitation program for your recovery. The ship''s facilities are at your disposal."


    "And the AI can help with cognitive exercises," Moss adds. His fingers tap briefly on his tablet, activating something. "HOPE has been analyzing your medical data to customize a recovery protocol."


    As if summoned, a voice emanates from the room''s speakers, feminine but clearly synthetic.


    "Good morning, Science Officer Thorne. I am HOPE, Heuristic Operations Protocol Entity, the integrated AI of the Radiant Hope. I am programmed to assist with all aspects of ship function and crew wellbeing."


    My muscles seize, throat constricting so suddenly I nearly choke. It''s the same voice—perfectly, horrifyingly identical to Sky''s. The same cadence, the same pitch, even the same slight pause between sentences.


    The voice that promised safety seconds before disaster.


    "All systems nominal," Sky said, moments before everything failed. "Preparing for departure sequence."


    Suddenly I''m back in the Boundless Sky''s command center, strapped into my seat for departure. Bennett''s steady hands on the controls, confidence in every movement. Laurent checking environmental readouts, her methodical efficiency a comforting rhythm. Rivera confirming navigation coordinates, his subtle humor keeping us grounded through the tension of departure.


    HOPE continues, voice sliding into my memory like a knife, "Your preliminary medical assessment indicates significant progress in just four days—"


    The first tremor runs through the ship, subtle but wrong. The display panels flicker. Bennett''s posture stiffens.


    "Sky," she says, “Status report."


    "All systems nominal," Sky repeats, but there''s a microsecond lag that wasn''t there before. "Minor power fluctuation detected in the—"


    Warning lights bathe the command center in crimson. Rivera''s fingers fly across the interface, his earlier composure replaced by controlled panic. "Power core destabilizing," he shouts over the sudden blare of alarms. "Something''s damaged the core!"


    Laurent''s eyes meet mine across the command center, a split second of shared recognition. This is bad. This is worse than bad.


    "Sky, emergency protocols!" Bennett barks, still believing the system might save us.


    "Emergency pro-pro-protocols initiated," Sky stutters as her systems begin to fail, betraying us with the same pleasant tone that had guided us for years. "Pr-preparing for departure sequence."


    The ship lurched violently. The viewport shows us falling, tumbling toward the planet''s surface. The hull shrieks as atmospheric friction tears at it.


    "Brace for impact!" Bennett screams, and then—


    My hands grip the edge of the table, knuckles white, nails digging into the synthetic surface.


    Hope’s sensors immediately detect the change. "Science Officer Thorne, your vital signs just spiked."


    "Stop," I manage, the word coming out as a strangled whisper, a desperate plea to silence the voice that''s dragging me back into hell.


    But Hope’s microphones must have failed to pick up my response, because she continues, oblivious. "Your heart rate is climbing and you are hyperventilating. Do you need medical assistance?"


    The words tear from me, harsh and louder than I intended, my voice cracking with the effort. "Shut up!"


    The silence that follows is absolute.


    Moss goes completely still, eyes wide. Arden looks like he''s about to speak, then thinks better of it. Greaves moves closer, his medical training overriding any shock.


    Raines breaks the silence, her voice controlled but with an edge of concern. “Hope, disengage verbal communication."


    Hope’s does not respond, evidence of her registering the order.


    "Elias," Greaves says softly, "What''s wrong?"


    Post-adrenaline fatigue sets in. My hands start to shake.


    I don’t want to say anything, but unfortunately, I can’t pretend I didn’t just shout at the perfectly neutral and inoffensive AI.


    My response is tight. “That voice was the last thing we heard.”


    Raines’ next works brook no argument. “Moss will see if the GSA included other voice options on board."


    "Yes," Moss agrees firmly, nodding his head eagerly. "Of course."


    I nod, grateful for the understanding, but still unsettled by how quickly the memories had overwhelmed me. Eight months of isolation, of survival, of watching my friends die one by one—and all it took was a familiar voice to bring it crashing back. How many other landmines are waiting in my mind? How many other ordinary things will suddenly become triggers?


    "Maybe we should continue this later," Greaves suggests, his hand steady on my shoulder, a physical anchor to the present.


    "No," I say, surprising myself. "No, I''m okay." The last thing I want is to be treated like I''m about to shatter. I''ve survived worse than an AI voice. I''ve survived things that defy comprehension. I will not be broken by a memory. "Let''s just... continue."


    Raines studies me for a moment, her military assessment weighing my capability to function, then nods, respecting my decision. “Hope, have a unit bring appropriate nutrition for Dr. Thorne."


    HOPE makes no verbal response, but across the room, an Ancillary Unit—identical to the two we had on the Boundless Sky—gives a slight mechanical nod and moves toward the food synthesizer. I watch it move with the same efficient precision as the units we were forced to deactivate to conserve power. I remember Bennett''s hand on the shutdown control, her face grave as she explained we needed the power more than we needed the assistance.


    "We''ve settled into a good rhythm for the return journey," Arden says, breaking the awkward silence that has fallen again. "Established some routines to keep everyone sane."


    "We''ve got a schedule for shared activities," Moss adds, his tone deliberately casual, trying to normalize the conversation. "Game night on Thursdays. Movie screenings on Saturdays in the common area. It helps break up the monotony of shift rotations."


    "Friday is music night," Arden says. "We take turns blasting our music on the speakers. Last week was Raines’s classical piano. The week before, Moss subjected us to punk rock."


    "Which was a vast improvement over Greaves'' opera collection," Moss counters good-naturedly, a well-worn joke between long-term crewmates.


    The Ancillary places a bowl of something that resembles oatmeal in front of me. The scent of cinnamon wafts up—a small luxury I''d forgotten existed.


    “You have to eat,” Bennett said.


    I force myself to raise the spoon to my mouth.


    It''s bland compared to pre-mission meals, but after months of emergency rations, it tastes almost decadent.


    Shame curls in my stomach, but I follow Bennett’s orders and eat the entire thing.


    The conversation shifts into the small details of daily life aboard the Radiant Hope—the comfortable routines and minor conflicts that emerge when the same people share limited space for months. It''s familiar territory; the Boundless Sky had similar rhythms before the crash. Movie nights in the common area. Rivera''s terrible taste in classic films. Laurent''s unexpected talent for chess. Bennett''s ritual Sunday morning coffee, the one luxury she allowed herself.


    I listen more than I speak, my body still hypersensitive to every sound, every movement. But there''s something grounding about their casual interaction, reminding me of the structured days I once took for granted. Days that my crew will never experience again.


    I finish half the bowl before fatigue hits me like a physical weight, pulling me back to the present reality of my weakened condition. The simple act of sitting upright, of eating, of existing in this social space has drained what little strength I''ve recovered.


    "That''s probably enough excitement for today," Greaves says, noticing my drooping eyelids, the way my shoulders have begun to curve inward.


    I don''t argue this time.