《Deadworld》


 Chapter 1

    Elias Thorne


    The ping on the radar, signaling an incoming ship, jolts me from my half-conscious state.


    I blink, certain I am hallucinating again. I''ve been amazed the last few months by what a desperate, starved, traumatized mind can conjure. And there is no way it''s the rescue ship. Rescue should still be weeks away. If they even mounted a rescue mission at all, which I''m not convinced they did. It would be a massive amount of time for humanity to waste just to confirm four dead bodies and a crashed space ship.


    The makeshift shelter I''ve constructed in the remains of the Boundless Sky''s airlock creaks around me, the sound of metal contracting in the planet''s brutal temperature shift. Night is coming.


    The ping sounds again¡ªclear, unmistakable. Something is entering the atmosphere.


    My heart shoots into my chest as I drag myself to the cracked display panel. Eight months of false hopes have taught me not to trust anything, especially not my own mind.


    But there it is: a bright dot descending through HDX-937b''s upper atmosphere, following a controlled trajectory.


    "Hello?" I rasp into the comm unit, its wires spliced and taped together after the crash. Static answers me. I clear my throat, fighting against months of disuse. "This is Science Officer Elias Thorne of the Boundless Sky. Do you copy?"


    More static, and then¡ªimpossibly¡ªa voice crackles through.


    "¡ªrepeat, Radiant Hope to any survivors of Boundless Sky. We are beginning descent procedures. Please respond¡ª"


    The transmission cuts out, swallowed by the planet''s ionized upper atmosphere.


    I stagger to my feet, heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.


    "I''m here!" I shout, though I know the signal is too weak to transmit. "I''m still here!"


    There''s no time to wait for better contact. If they''re coming down, I need to be visible. I lurch toward the airlock controls, already in my enviro-suit as I have been for nearly two months now. I have to get outside. Have to signal them before they decide there''s nothing left to save.


    But after my suit is on, my hands hover over the decompression airlock.


    If I am hallucinating, and I hit this button, I''m dead. This detached airlock is the only source of atmosphere I have left.


    If I''m hallucinating, though, I suppose, it''s one hell of a hallucination. Complete with voices and radar pings. Not likely to be a hallucination.


    I glance down at Bennett''s body. She''s still in her suit where I laid her, helmet clasped shut to contain the sickly-sweet stench of decomposition that had begun to fill our shared space.


    I know she¡¯s already dead, but I can¡¯t bring myself to open this airlock door if I don¡¯t check her suit¡¯s seals first. I check all the clasps quickly.


    The radar pings again.


    I hit the button. The air hisses out as the doors open for the last time.


    As I stagger from the wreckage, a fireball cuts through the thin atmosphere like a blade. It moves impossibly fast, a distant speck growing larger, sharper, until I can make out the silhouette of a landing shuttle.


    I''m not imagining it. Not this time.


    I exhale, a ragged sound against the helmet''s stale air circulation. My fingers tighten around the battered fabric of my suit, the duct tape barely holding the seals together. My body sways with exhaustion, with disbelief.


    I blink against the glare, half expecting the vision to blur, to vanish the way it has in my dreams. But it doesn''t. The shuttle is real. It''s here.


    A cloud of dust erupts as it nears the ground, landing struts extending, engines roaring in a deep, guttural tremor that shakes the cracked ground beneath me.


    The shuttle''s ramp begins to lower, corrosive toxic dust swirling around it. Their shuttle airlock opens, and as it opens, I realize with sudden horror I need to tell them about the dust.


    ¡°The dust!¡± I shout into the radio, hoping they can hear me now. ¡°The dust is toxic! Don¡¯t let it into the shuttle!¡±


    Greaves lets out a choked laugh¡ªhalf glee, half sheer disbelief. "Holy shit, Elias. You''re alive. What dust?¡±


    ¡°This!¡± I scream, pointing to the air where the dust is swirling around us. ¡°The dust!¡±


    The lead figure hesitates, then continues forward with more caution. Two others exit behind her, their movements suddenly more deliberate.


    "This is Captain Margot Raines of the Radiant Hope," comes a measured voice through my comm. "Dr. Thorne, please clarify the nature of the threat."


    The crew of the Radiant Hope, our sister ship. We trained together at the GSA before we split off into two individual crews for the mission. Standard protocol dictated they follow our flight path when our signal went dark¡ªbut it appears they weren''t expecting to find survivors any more than I was expecting to survive.


    I force myself to breathe, to push through the fog in my brain.


    "The surface dust," I manage, each word an effort. "If it gets into your bloodstream, it''s fatal."


    There''s a moment of silence, then rapid-fire orders from Raines. "Arden, Greaves, Full decontamination protocols. Nobody removes helmets until we''re back on the Hope."


    Dr. Harlow Greaves, still moving toward me despite the warning, glances down at his suit already glittering with the fine particles. ¡°Threat level?" he asks, the medical officer''s training immediately kicking in.


    "Blood contamination is lethal, but surface contact and ingestion don''t appear to cause symptoms,¡± I rasp, my own training kicking in alongside his.


    Severe dizziness begins to set in. I haven¡¯t been on my feet in months.


    I sway on my feet. Greaves steps to my side to support me.


    ¡°Even more amazing, then, that we¡¯ve found you alive,¡± Captain Margot Raines says, her voice a mixture of awe and joy. "We expected to find nothing but bodies. Where are the others?"


    My chest sinks, hollow and heavy. I look away, my gaze fixing on the distant horizon where the planet''s toxic dust swirls in perpetual motion.


    "The rest of the crew," Greaves says "Where are they, Thorne?"


    My throat closes. I open my mouth, but no sound emerges. My hands begin to tremble inside the patched gloves.


    His grip on my arm tightens. ¡°Elias? Maya, Carlos, Anne¡ªWhere are they?"


    I stand, frozen, unable to meet his eyes.


    Greaves''s excitement drains away, replaced by dawning comprehension.


    "Captain," Arden''s voice cuts in, sharp and strange, over the crackling comms. He''s stepped away, deeper into the wreckage, his sensors sweeping the area. ¡°I¡¯ve found Laurent.¡± Laurent, her body wrapped carefully in canvas, placed in the most sheltered corner of the wreckage we could find.


    ¡°I¡¯ve found Rivera,¡± Raines calls out, her voice unsteady. We laid him near the airlock entrance where he¡¯d died, canvas folded over his wrecked remains.


    A sudden cry from the direction of the airlock makes everyone freeze.


    ¡°Oh my God¡­¡± Arden¡¯s voice is barely recognizable. "Bennett''s in here... and there¡¯s¡ª¡° he pauses, unsure of how describe the fetid husk of an airlock I¡¯ve been living in two months. ¡°There¡¯s evidence of habitation,¡± is what he chooses to say. ¡°Ration packet wrappers, the water recycler. Thorne was living in here with her body.¡±


    A heavy silence falls over the comms.


    Greaves recovers first, his medical training kicking in. His feet move before his mouth does. ¡°I need to get him to the shuttle. Now."


    ¡°Arden, help me move the bodies,¡± Raines murmurs into her radio, her usually composed voice unsteady. Her eyes return to me, assessment mixed with something like horror and pity. "Greaves, get him stabilized."


    Greaves nods, gripping my arm and guiding me toward the shuttle. "Let''s get you out of this environment, Thorne. You need immediate medical attention."


    I close my eyes and let him guide me toward the shuttle, every step toward it feeling like a betrayal.


    Raines'' composure returns, though I can hear how she struggles to maintain it after what she''s seen. "Arden, also take sealed samples of the dust, and recover the Sky¡¯s memory core if you can."


    My chest constricts so suddenly I can''t breathe. Heat flushes through my body, a violent surge of something between rage and despair.


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    If you can. As if it''s just an afterthought. As if Rivera didn''t make me swear with his dying breath to protect our scientific data and get it back to Earth. Now Raines tosses it off like some optional souvenir to grab if convenient.


    I rip my arm out of Greaves¡¯s grasp. "The data is non-negotiable," I say over the radio, my voice suddenly stronger than it''s been in months.


    Raines straightens, clearly surprised by my sudden force. "Of course, Dr. Thorne. We''ll recover everything possible."


    "Not ''everything possible,''" I manage raggedly. "Everything."


    Raines¡¯ voice is solemn. "I''ll make sure of it personally, Elias. I promise."


    Something in her tone reaches through the fog. I remember training exercises, Raines¡¯ attention to detail, her respect for protocol. If anyone will treat those memory banks with the reverence they deserve, it''s her.


    I slacken into the arms around me.


    "We need to move now," Greaves cuts in sharply, his medical scanner beeping alarmingly as he connects it to my enviro-suit. "His heart rate is dangerously irregular. Let''s get him aboard."


    I''m shaking. I can''t stop shaking.


    Greaves guides me through the shuttle''s exterior door and into the cramped airlock. The door seals behind us with a hiss, and he immediately activates the decontamination sequence. A fine mist begins to spray from nozzles in the ceiling and walls, coating our suits with decontamination solution. The liquid beads on the surface of our helmets, carrying away the microscopic particles that could mean death if they breach our protection.


    "The others," I manage, my voice barely audible on the radio. "Don''t leave them here."


    "We won''t," he promises through his mirrored visor. ¡°Didn¡¯t you hear the captain? We¡¯re bringing everyone home."


    I nod, a small movement that sends waves of dizziness through me. The adrenaline that kept me upright is beginning to fade.


    My knees buckle, and Greaves catches me under my arms.


    "Whoa, easy," he says, concern sharpening his voice. "Just a few more minutes and we can get you out of this suit."


    My breathing becomes shallow, each inhalation harder than the last. The edges of my vision begin to darken. My body has reached its limit.


    Greaves''s scanner beeps urgently against my chest. "Shit," he mutters, eyes darting between me and the readout. "Heart rate dropping, blood pressure crashing." His voice rises, pitched toward the comm. "Thorne''s crashing."


    "Can''t override safety protocols," comes Raines''s tight response. "Four more minutes minimum."


    The mist continues its methodical work, indifferent to my deteriorating condition.


    Greaves grips both my shoulders now, lowering me carefully to a seated position against the airlock wall.


    "Stay with me, Elias," he says, his professional demeanor cracking.


    "The others," I mumble, feeling like I¡¯m about to pass out.


    ¡°Being loaded," Greaves assures me. "Rivera, Laurent, and Bennett. And the memory core. We''ve got everything, Elias. Everyone''s coming home."


    Relief washes through me, stronger than any medicine Greaves could administer. My eyes close briefly, the weight of my eight-month vigil finally, truly lifting.


    Greaves tells me to open my eyes for him, to stay with him, but I pass out anyway.


    <hr>


    When I wake up, I''m in a sterile med bay, soft artificial light casting everything in an unfamiliar glow. The hum of the ship''s life support systems surrounds me, steady and rhythmic. Nothing like the unpredictable silence of the deadworld.


    A soft beep registers at the edge of my awareness¡ªa heart monitor, steady but slow. My body feels impossibly heavy. Every muscle is sore, my skin hypersensitive and raw.


    The scent of medical-grade antiseptic fills my nostrils, sharp and clinical¡ªnothing like the stale, recycled air I''ve breathed for months.


    A voice pulls me from the fog. "Elias?"


    It''s Greaves, standing beside the bed, arms crossed but eyes softer than I remember.


    I try to sit up, fighting my weakness. After spending months lying around, conserving calories, I can¡¯t bear to be horizontal.


    But unlike last time I was awake, I¡¯m not able to on my own.


    Seeing my struggle, Greaves frowns but adjusts the bed, raising me to a semi-reclined position. "Better?"


    I nod, though the movement sends a wave of dizziness through me. The new angle gives me a better view of myself¡ªarms like twigs, skin hanging loosely where muscle used to be. My chest rising and falling with careful, shallow breaths. I can''t tear my eyes away from the ruins of my body.


    Greaves follows my gaze, his expression softening. "We''ve started a nutrient infusion protocol," he explains, gesturing to one of the IV bags. "Your body needs to recover. We''ll begin with liquids tomorrow, then soft foods as your digestive system adjusts."


    I stare at the purple-yellow bruises that map my forearms, at the puffy, red lines where the suit''s seams cut into my skin.


    "How long was I out?¡± My voice is rough, barely more than a whisper.


    "A few hours. You were dehydrated, malnourished. We had to stabilize your vitals before waking you." He shifts uncomfortably, his professional detachment slipping. "You gave us a hell of a scare."


    I exhale, looking past him to the window. The stars blur beyond the glass, distant and untouchable. I''m not sure if I should feel relief or something else entirely.


    He checks something on his tablet. His voice catches slightly. "Those mineral compounds¡ªwe''ve never seen anything like them."


    My skin crawls at the thought. I''d stopped noticing the fine dust that coated everything, that worked its way into every seam and seal.


    The same dust that killed Carlos, seeping into his bloodstream through a single cut.


    I look down at my arms, half-expecting to see the glittering residue still there. All I see is pink, raw skin.


    "You''ve been scrubbed clean," Greaves continues, watching my reaction carefully. "Three times. We weren''t taking any chances."


    He moves closer, his white medical coat a stark contrast to the subdued colors of the equipment.


    I find myself staring at the pristine fabric, wondering how something can be so untouched, so clean, when everything I''ve known for months has been coated in deadly dust particles.


    ¡°We assume they had something to do with the Sky¡¯s crash,¡± he says carefully, ¡°So after we rescued you, we immediately left orbit. We¡¯re en route to Earth.¡±


    "The others," I say, eyes still closed. "Have you¡ª"


    "Captain Raines has prepared the bodies for transport," he says gently. Then, softer: "They''ll receive full military and civilian honors when we return."


    I nearly scoff. As if medals and flags could make up for what happened.


    "Let me check your vitals," Greaves says, moving to the monitors.


    I watch his hands as they move methodically¡ªadjusting IV lines, tapping notes into a tablet. Each touch seems to linger longer than necessary, each glance at the readouts weighted with something that breaks through his professional veneer.


    I wish it were Laurent checking my vitals.


    My heart aches.


    "How bad?" I ask.


    His eyes flick toward me, then back to the monitors. There''s a moment of hesitation before he answers, like he''s choosing his words carefully. "You survived eight months on a deadworld. I''d say you''re doing remarkably well, all things considered."


    "That''s not an answer," I bite back, irritated by his evasion.


    Greaves sighs, setting down his tablet. When he looks back at me, his expression has changed¡ªthe clinical mask slipping to reveal something raw and pained. "Severe malnutrition. Your muscle mass is down almost forty percent. Second-degree pressure sores where your suit rubbed against bone."


    I can''t help but look down at my body as he speaks. The sheet has slipped away, exposing my chest¡ªribs pushing against papery skin, hollows where muscle should be. My right shoulder is a mass of angry red tissue where the suit''s joint repeatedly rubbed against the same spot.


    I can''t look away, transfixed by this stranger''s body that somehow belongs to me.


    "Early stages of oxygen toxicity from breathing recycled air too long. Kidney function compromised from dehydration." He pauses, watching me examine myself with horrified fascination. "And that''s just the physical inventory."


    I close my eyes, unable to bear the sight anymore. Heat rises to my face¡ªshame, anger, I''m not sure which


    "Your body was shutting down," Greaves continues, his voice less steady now. "Another week, maybe two, and we wouldn''t be having this conversation."


    My stomach lurches violently. Another week. Just seven more days and I would have joined them.


    My hands grip the thin sheet covering me, twisting it between my fingers.


    A week. That''s all it would have taken.


    My next thought is almost wistful.


    So close.


    Greaves notices my reaction, his features morphing with compassion and concern. It grates against something jagged inside me. I don''t want his pity. I don''t deserve it.


    He moves to my side, a scanner in his hand. "I need to check your neural activity," he says, the device humming as he passes it over my head. His hands tremble slightly, betraying his composed exterior. "You''ve been through severe trauma, and we need to establish a baseline."


    "My brain''s fine," I mutter, turning away from his concern.


    "Let me be the judge of that," he replies, but there''s no edge to his words. A small, sad smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You were always a terrible patient, even during training.¡±


    His voice shifts into something more careful, more measured.


    "Elias," He says. "I know it''s soon, but I need to ask you a few questions about what happened. It will help me treat you more effectively. Medical assessment only," Greaves assures me, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes me want to look away. "The official debriefing can wait."


    I swallow, tasting the metallic aftertaste of the medication. "Go ahead," I manage, bracing myself.


    Greaves pulls a stool closer, sitting at eye level with me. "I need to understand the physical conditions you endured. Food intake, water rationing, temperature fluctuations, atmospheric exposure¡ªall of it. Any toxins or pathogens you might have encountered, including these minerals.¡± His voice is clinical, but his eyes never leave my face, watching for signs of distress. "Take me through the physical risks you were exposed to."


    The question is straightforward enough. Medical. Practical. But as I open my mouth to answer¡ª


    Pressure alarms screaming. The canvas seals failing as night temperatures plummet to minus seventy. My fingers, numb and clumsy, trying to patch the rupture with sealant that won''t bond in the cold. Air hissing out. Precious oxygen escaping into the deadworld''s atmosphere.


    Bennett¡¯s voice, calm despite everything. "Try the emergency patch kit. The thermal-reactive one."


    My own voice, reporting the situation. "Oxygen levels dropping. Four minutes until critical."


    The wind picking up, carrying fine, glittering dust that seems to eat through everything it touches.


    Bennett''s face, lit by emergency lighting. "If we can''t seal it, we need to relocate. Now."


    "Elias? Elias!"


    I blink, finding myself back in the med bay, Greaves'' hand on my shoulder, his face creased with concern. The monitors beside the bed are beeping rapidly, reflecting my spiking heart rate. His grip is firm but gentle, anchoring me to the present.


    "You''re safe," he says firmly, his voice cutting through the fog of memory. "You''re on the Radiant Hope. You''re not there anymore."


    I swallow, feel the sheen of cold sweat on my forehead. I give a short nod, not trusting my voice.


    Greaves doesn''t remove his hand, the physical contact a tether to reality. "You don''t have to answer,¡± he says, his voice gentler than I''ve ever heard it, softened to the point of being unbearable. "I shouldn''t have pushed so soon."


    I do not want to be treated like something broken in need of saving.


    I throw his hand off mine. My response is positively robotic. "We retreated to a detached pressurized airlock three months ago. Oxygen recyclers operating at 25% capacity upon rescue. Water rationing down to 300 milliliters. Food intake down to half a ration pack per day."


    He sets down his tablet and just looks at me, really looks at me, for the first time since I woke up. "Elias, what you went through..." His voice breaks slightly. "Most people wouldn''t have lasted a month, let alone eight."


    I didn''t survive because I''m special or strong. I survived because I was too stubborn to die and too afraid to join the others.


    Greaves'' hand returns to my shoulder, a steady weight grounding me to the present. "You''re safe now, Elias."


    But safety feels like a foreign concept, something that belongs to the person I was before the deadworld. Before I watched my crew die one by one. Before I became the only one left.


    "Get some rest," He says, standing. He adjusts my blanket with unnecessary care. "We''ll continue when you''re stronger."


    As he moves toward the door, I call after him. "Harlow."


    He turns, eyebrows raised. I''ve never used his first name before, not even during training.


    "Thank you," I say. "For coming back for me."


    Something flickers across his face¡ªguilt, relief, sorrow, I can''t tell.


    ¡°Of course,¡± he says quietly, voice thick with emotion he can¡¯t quite hide. ¡°You would have done the same.¡±


    The door slides shut behind him, leaving me alone with the beeping monitors and the stars beyond the window.

 Chapter 2

    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¡ªsomething impossible in the cramped airlock where I spent the last months of my isolation¡ªsends 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¡ªan 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 ¡ª 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¡ª"


    "It''s fine," I cut him off. The idea of facing them¡ªtheir questions, their pity¡ªmakes 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¡ªsubtle, bland, but unmistakably food¡ªand 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¡ªsomething 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¡ªreal 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¡ªthin 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¡ªa 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¡ª"


    "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."


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    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¡ªwith 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¡ªno 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 ¡ª once strong enough to carry sampling equipment across uneven terrain for hours ¡ª 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¡ªthe 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 ¡ª 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¡ªperfectly, 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¡ª"


    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¡ª"


    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¡ª


    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¡ªand 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¡ªidentical to the two we had on the Boundless Sky¡ªgives 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¡ªa 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¡ªthe 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.