/ VITAL SIGNS: DROPPING /
/ AUDIO / VIDEO / RECORDING RESUMED /
I wake up in a strange bed, face half-buried in a straw-stuffed pillow that smells faintly of rice wine and firewood. The beams above me are timber, not titanium. There's no quiet hum of fabricators, no filtered air. Just the soft clatter of bowls in the kitchen below and the sunlight creeping through paper-shuttered windows.
The headache hits me like a pressure wave.
I groan, rolling over.
"Seek fluid intake."
Right. I swipe open my inventory and fumble out a filtered water bottle. Lukewarm. Still better than nothing. I chug it, wincing.
"Vital signs stabilizing."
My head clears just enough for thoughts to string together.
Sunbeam's coming.
They're my ticket off this planet. My only shot.
...After something down here shot the Aurora out of the sky.
…And the Degasi, ten years ago.
A pause...
I bolt upright in the creaking bed.
"Oh shit."
I push off the bed, grabbing my helmet and gear from the floor. A faint whiff of old sake still clings to my suit, but I ignore it, fumbling with the seals and activating the HUD as I rush toward the door.
I don't remember checking into this place, but the inn is small—cozy, really. Downstairs, a tavern girl is arranging dishes near the bar, long black hair tied back with a red ribbon. Her eyes light up the second she sees me.
"Oh! You're up!" she says, perking up behind the counter.
She leans forward, tilting her head slightly with a hopeful smile. "Do you want breakfast? We've still got rice, miso, and grilled peepers."
Her tone is bright, a little teasing. She's leaning just a bit too close.
But my mind's still screaming Sunbeam Sunbeam Sunbeam and I shake my head, trying not to sound like a complete lunatic. "Sorry—I have to go. Something urgent."
Her smile falters, just for a moment. She straightens, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Oh. Right. Well… okay."
I glance back once, hesitating. Then I nod. "Thanks—for the bed."
She gives me a quick little wave, but I catch a flicker of disappointment in her eyes.
No time.
I jog out through the town square, suit fully sealed now. My Seamoth's docked down by the rocks, but instead of driving straight to the lifepod, I pause on the beach.
I crouch at the water's edge, cold surf swirling around my boots. The Seamoth rocks gently in the shallows, sunlight gleaming off its scratched hull. I pop the storage hatch, digging through my inventory—titanium, copper, some quartz, a few handfuls of lead, all still rough and unrefined.
I sigh. "This is going to take a while."
I don't want to risk another run to the lifepod. Not with the Sunbeam inbound, and that shipbuster somewhere out there on the horizon. But I know I don't have enough materials here.
The builder in my hand flickers to life as I wade out deeper. Just enough to submerge a proper base, keep it out of sight, but still easily accessible from land and sea both.
Foundation
Requirements:
Titanium (2)
Lead (2)
I jam two chunks of titanium into the builder's intake, along with a couple fist-sized lumps of lead. The nanites whir into action, assembling the platform right on the sandy bottom. It settles flat, wide and sturdy. The beginnings of home.
Multipurpose Room:
Requirements:
Titanium (6)
I scoop more titanium from the Seamoth's storage, slotting each raw node into the builder's tray until it pings ready. The room assembles in a swirl of alloy and glass, fusing itself above the foundation. Cylindrical, open, and about as empty as my pantry used to be.
Hatch
Requirements:
Titanium (1)
Quartz (1)
I grab a chunk of quartz—smooth, sharp-edged, probably from the caves near my pod—and slap it in with one last piece of titanium. The builder welds a hatch in place, pressure seals snapping into place with a satisfying hiss.
That's about as far as I get before my supplies start to run thin. The base sits fully submerged, just visible from above, gleaming below the bay's surface like some ancient alien relic.
It's a start. Barely.
But for now, it's all I have.
The multipurpose room echoes when I step inside—bare metal, a faint chemical tang, pressure equalized but eerily silent. Feels like standing in an empty oil drum. Still, it's mine.
No power or oxygen yet, but that's not what I need it for right now.
First things first: storage. I slap together a few basic lockers along one curved wall.
Locker
Requirements:
Titanium (2)
I burn through my remaining titanium, slotting it into the fabricator's intake. Each locker snaps together in seconds—featureless, boxy, and way too small for all the crap I've hoarded, but it's a start. I dump everything I'm not immediately using—spare batteries, a tangle of copper wire, even the weird chakra scroll I took off the dead ninja—into the new storage. My inventory lightens, and my shoulders finally start to unknot.
Time to go back for the rest.
I slip out the hatch and swim toward the surface, climbing into the Seamoth as the sun drifts lower over the landmass.
"Welcome aboard, Captain."
The journey to the lifepod is uneventful—at first.
But halfway there, my stomach drops.
A ripple in the blue. Something moves beneath the surface—a massive shadow, gliding with impossible grace. There's a flicker of white jaws, a long fin, a scream echoing from somewhere deep in my animal brain.
I nearly drop the controls. "Fuck no."
I punch the Seamoth's throttle, veering away from the shadow and hugging the seafloor, engine whining in protest. I glance back, heart in my throat, but whatever it is—the leviathan that keeps haunting the ship's graveyard—doesn't follow.
Maybe it's full. Maybe I'm lucky. Maybe it's just not in the mood.
I don't care. I'm gone.
I reach the lifepod in record time, sweat stinging my eyes despite the suit's internal climate. I don't even bother with pleasantries—just pop the hatch and start stuffing everything I can grab into my inventory.
I make sure I have the essentials: I load up for solar panels (Titanium, Copper, Quartz), grab what I'll need for a bioreactor (Titanium, Lubricant, Table Coral, and Creepvine), prep for another fabricator (Titanium, Table Coral, Gold), and one more radio (Titanium, Copper). Then just grab whatever's left. My suit's inventory is full, the Seamoth's cargo hold is stuffed, and I'm sweating bullets again.
As I head back, every shadow feels like it's watching me.
But this time, nothing surfaces.
I make it to my new base, heart still pounding, and start ferrying supplies inside, loading lockers and prepping for the next build phase.
I dump the last of the raw ore into a locker, kicking the hatch shut with my boot.
First priority: oxygen and power.
The Habitat Builder hums to life in my hand, its nanite projector flickering as it loads the blueprint for a solar panel.
Solar Panel
Requirements:
Titanium (2)
Quartz (2)
Copper (1)Click to expand...
I head outside and float to the roof of the multipurpose room. The panel assembles with a hiss and whirr, locking in place with a satisfying click. I slap down a second one for redundancy—no such thing as too much power out here.
As the panels begin harvesting sunlight, the base hums quietly to life. Lights flicker on inside. The air processor kicks in. I hear the quiet rush of oxygen cycling through the vents.
I exhale. Didn't even realize I was holding my breath.
"Welcome aboard, Captain."
Back inside, I turn toward the center of the room.
Bioreactor
Converts organic matter into energy. Can power a habitat sustainably when fed with fast-growing biomass.
Requirements:
Titanium (3)
Lubricant (1)
Wiring Kit (1)Click to expand...
The reactor rises from the floor in a slow swirl of sparks and nanites, humming low and steady as it powers on. Good. Operational. But I'll need fuel.
Which brings me to the next step.
I step back outside, swim a short distance from the base, and lay down another foundation connected to the first—stable, flat.
Once that locks in, I deploy the blueprint for an Exterior Growbed—from the Degasi database.
Exterior Growbed
Accelerates plant growth in alien environments by stimulating root systems and maintaining moisture levels.
Requirements:
Titanium (2)Click to expand...
I dig into my pouch and pull out the last gel sack I found in the Deep Sparse Reef. Ugly, bulbous thing. I slice it open and plant the seeds. Each one pulses faintly with bioluminescent green.
The growbed'll have these things grow fast. Given time, I'll have a steady supply of fuel for the bioreactor. Maybe even food.
It's not pretty, but it's sustainable.
I sit back on the hatch edge, panting quietly, sweat beading inside the helmet. The bay's water laps gently at the supports. My new base pulses with soft internal lights—alive. Stable.
Finally.
Then I remember the radio.
Not the one in the pod. If I'm going to warn the Sunbeam, I need range. Enough to cut through atmospheric distortion and whatever electromagnetic haze is saturating this cursed planet.
I flick open the PDA and scroll through my blueprints.
There:
Signal Booster Array
Increases broadcast range for short- and mid-band communications.
Titanium (1)
Copper Wire (1)
Conductive Biofiber (1)Click to expand...
"PDA, define 'Conductive Fiber.'"
"Conductive Biofiber is a biologically-derived filament engineered from high-cellulose, mineral-rich land plants. Fabrication involves carbonizing plant fibers at high temperature, then infusing them with a conductive polymer matrix.
Ideal source: Urtica dioica (stinging nettle), due to high cellulose density, silica reinforcement, and natural iron uptake.
Resulting composite is lightweight, flexible, and capable of low-voltage signal transmission."
"Stinging nettle?" I murmur.
"A common terrestrial weed. Present in 4546B's local land flora."
As I'm about to leave, the pda pipes up again.
"Reverse Engineering Plan Logic...
Initializing structural diagnostic.
Observation: User attempting habitat expansion and long-range communications.
Operation Evaluation: Current uplink strategy: signal booster chaining.
Result: Implausible.
Explanation:
Signal degradation exceeds compounding amplifier thresholds.
Atmospheric interference from magnetic storms and unknown ionization fields present across planetary stratosphere.
Mid-band frequency cascade loss increases exponentially beyond 500 km.
Effective range of chained boosters: approx. 600 km, unstable.
Signal required to warn Sunbeam must exceed 900 km with compressed orbital-grade fidelity.
Conclusion:
Current strategy will fail."
I sigh, slumping against the metal bulkhead. "You got any better ideas?"
The PDA doesn't answer right away. Instead, the HUD flickers—new blueprints scroll across my visor in clean, efficient lines.
"New System Setup: Base-Integrated Signal Uplink
Long-range compressed data transmitter. Designed for emergency orbital communication."
1. Transmission Array (Base Room Module)
Primary dish. Installs to any powered habitat structure. Converts local signal into compressed text-based uplink. Low frequency, long-range.
Titanium Ingot (1)
Advanced Wiring Kit (1)
Conductive Biofiber (1)
Power Cell (1)Click to expand...
2. Signal Processor (Internal Component)
Encodes and error-corrects outgoing data packets. Required for orbital relay compatibility.
Copper Wire (1)
Gold (1)
Magnetite (1)Click to expand...
3. Capacitor Bank (Energy Storage Unit)
Accumulates power for high-intensity burst transmission. Requires full charge before each send.
Titanium (1)
Gold (1)
Battery (1)
Magnetite (1)Click to expand...
4. Signal Booster Module (Optional Upgrade – Max 3)
Extends maximum transmission range.
Conductive Biofiber (1)
Silver (1)
Magnetite (1)Click to expand...
5. Elevation Bonus (Optional)
Mount base on high terrain. Gain ~100 km range per 100 m elevation.
Maximum terrain-based bonus: ~300 km.
"Summary:
Replaces failed signal booster plan with grounded, plausible uplink system.
Compatible with current user-level fabrication tools."
I stare at the glowing blueprint, brow furrowing beneath the helmet.
"So... not only do I have to build all this crap, I have to drag the materials up a mountain?"
"Clarification:
Effective range requires elevation of 300 meters minimum. Topographical analysis indicates viable mountaintop platforms available within 3.8 to 5.2 kilometers.
Estimated effort: low.
Estimated success probability: acceptable."
I rub my gloved hands down my faceplate, "How big is the Sunbeam's crew, anyway?"
A moment, then a pop-up on the HUD.
Sunbeam: Light Trading Vessel
Crew Manifest: 6
Primary Roles:
Pilot, Systems Engineer, Communications Officer, Medic, Cargo Specialist, Operations Lead
Ship Type:
Mid-range civilian transport vessel. Unarmored. Non-militarized. No stealth or defense systems. Primarily used for trade routes, personnel transfers, and light freight delivery across settled sectors.Click to expand...
Just six people on a glorified tow truck, trying to help. Flying blind toward the same doom we got hit by. And I'm the only one in range to stop it.
"Fine," I mutter. "Fine. But I'm not hiking all the way to the top of a mountain on foot."
I pull up the schematic I've been saving.
Gullwing
Requirements:
Titanium Ingot (1)
Lubricant (1)
Advanced Wiring Kit (1)
Magnetite (2)
Silicone Rubber (1)
Power Cell (1)Click to expand...
I pop the hatch on the Seamoth and start digging through storage, double-checking every piece. Titanium chunks clatter into my inventory, enough for the ingot. I process creepvine into silicone, wring out lubricant, and finally assemble the wiring kit with the last of my silver.
Magnetite... I've got just enough left from the ridge run.
Power cell's already charged.
I move to a flat patch of sand just outside the base and activate the builder.
The Gullwing comes together like something from a dream—sleek, low-profile, hovering just above the sand with a gentle hum. The body tapers to a sharp front, with two stabilizing arms that shimmer faintly from the repulsor nodes. A short control yoke rises from the front panel, minimalist. Efficient.
It's beautiful. And mine.
I swing a leg over and the engine powers on—quiet but ready. HUD syncs instantly.
GULLWING ONLINE
Power Cell: 100%
Drive Core Stable
"GLIDE BOOST": AVAILABLE
I nod to myself. One step down. Too many left.
Now it's time to gather more materials. I'm going to need minerals, and I still haven't even touched the biofiber issue. I'll need to head back inland soon, find that stinging nettle the PDA was talking about.
All of this needs to be in place before the Sunbeam hits orbit.
In three days.
I leave the Gullwing in a thicket near the tree line—engine off, hull covered in a layer of loose brush. Doesn't look like much from a distance. Hopefully it stays that way.
Then I slip into the Seamoth, power it up, and dive.
The ocean swallows me fast. Pale light filters down through thickening blue as I skirt the edge of the grassy plateau, keeping an eye out for limestone nodes and coral shelves. Every few hundred meters, I pop out—blade in hand or seaglide ready—hunting for what I need.
I chip away at a limestone outcrop near a cluster of tube coral. A shard of copper pings free and drifts down into the sand. I grab it. Acid mushrooms come next—common, but still necessary. I pocket a few bulbous caps into my inventory pouch, careful not to touch their spore sacs directly.
Titanium's easier. Wreckage is everywhere—Aurora debris half-buried in the sand or twisted around reef walls.
I keep moving—deeper into the reef.
I find silver in the sandstone near a thermal vent, heat curling around the edges of my gloves. Magnetite's trickier, tucked along the seabed, hidden in the red grass. But it's there—jet black and needle-sharp.
By the time I break the surface again, the sun's starting to dip low over the horizon.
Still missing one thing.
I jog back to the Gullwing and fire it up. It lifts off the ground with a faint, stabilizing hum, and I push it inland. The terrain shifts quickly—coastal scrub turning to patchy grass, then thickets of short trees and bramble. The PDA pings softly as I pass a flowering bush near a rocky ledge.
"Local Flora: Analog match – Urtica genus confirmed. High-cellulose, silica-rich plant fiber detected."
Bingo.
Stinging nettle.
I dismount, kneel by the plant, and pluck a few stalks. The leaves twitch slightly against the pressure—tiny barbs prick at the lining of my glove, but the radiation suit's lead-weave palms hold up. I collect what I can, tucking the fibrous greens into a storage pouch, already imagining the chemical process needed to convert it.
That's it. That's everything.
The sky's bleeding orange by the time I glide back to the shoreline. I coast into the trees, finding a thick patch of underbrush and tall grass, then power the Gullwing down. The engine hum dies with a soft fweep as I layer branches and loose foliage over its frame. From the road, it'll look like a pile of brush.
I give it one last glance before walking back toward the lights of the village.
Evening's settled in fully now. Paper lanterns glow from doorways and windows, casting soft gold halos onto the dirt paths. The chatter from the tavern is low, steady—laughter, footsteps, the faint clink of dishes. It's calm. Normal.
I step into the inn and am immediately greeted by the warm scent of wood smoke and something mildly sweet—rice wine, maybe.
The inn girl's behind the counter, wiping down a tray, but she straightens the second she sees me. Her hands pause, her posture subtly shifting—shoulders a little taller, her expression brightening by half a degree.
"You're back," she says. "I figured you'd be out... longer."
She says it casually, but there's a subtle bounce in the way she steps around the counter. She's already reaching for a fresh key from the wall, before I've even said anything. A practiced host—but there's something careful in the way her fingers brush mine as she hands it over. Not quite accidental.
"Same room?" she asks, glancing up, eyes catching mine for a second too long.
"Sure," I say, voice low from fatigue. "Thanks."
She nods, a faint smile touching her lips. "You seem tired. Long day?"
"Yeah. Kind of." I shift slightly, trying not to sigh too loudly.
She doesn't ask more. Instead, she steps behind the counter and flips open the payment log.
"That'll be thirty-five ryō for the night."
I reach into my coin pouch, thumb grazing the unfamiliar currency. My PDA hums softly in the background, auto-scanning the coins and translating the kanji etched into the aged metal.
"Currency conversion complete.
Recommended coins: 5x 5 ryō, 1x 10 ryō"
I pluck the exact coins from the pouch and slide them across the counter. She watches the way I count them—studying, maybe. Not questioning it aloud, but I can feel her curiosity behind the smile.
Once paid, she gently folds the ledger shut.
"If you need anything... just let me know."
Her tone is light, but there's something else under it. Something hopeful.
I nod politely and turn to go.
Upstairs, the room's just as I left it—spartan but warm. Tatami mats underfoot, paper screens, the faint scent of lavender or cedarwood in the air. It's comfortable. Clean.
But I don't sleep.
Not really.
I lie there in the quiet, suit half-unsealed, staring at the ceiling.
The Sunbeam is out there. Flying blind. Unaware.
And the thing that brought down the Aurora is probably still watching the sky. Still waiting.
I close my eyes and try to sleep.
But the screams of my crewmates on the Aurora still echo in my head... and I can't help but wonder if the Sunbeam will end the same way.
/ VITAL SIGNS: ELEVATED/
/ RECORDING SUSPENDED — USER UNCONSCIOUS /
/ VITAL SIGNS: ELEVATED/
/ AUDIO / VIDEO / RECORDING RESUMED /
Morning breaks through the paper shutters in pale gold, cutting thin lines across the floorboards. The inn is quiet—peaceful, in that heavy, low-burning way.
I suit up quickly, seal the helmet, and head downstairs.
The tavern girl is already up, humming to herself behind the counter. She doesn't say anything at first, just gestures me to sit. A plate's already waiting: fried eggs, rice, grilled mackerel, and something sharp and pickled on the side. Real food. Comfort food.
It's good.
I pull the mask off and eat fast, but not without savoring it—clean protein, salt, oil, and heat all in perfect balance. The inn girl is watching me the whole time.
As I finish, one of the old drunks dozing near the window stirs and grumbles toward the counter.
"Why don't I ever get breakfast like that?"
The girl quickly picks up a nearby bread basket and hucks it at him, smacking him right on the head.
He groans, flopping back down. I cover a small laugh with a cough, nodding my thanks to her as I get up. She doesn't say anything, but her eyes linger a little longer than necessary as I head out.
Not many options out in the sticks, huh?
Outside, the air is crisp and clean. I make my way back toward the treeline.
The Gullwing is right where I left it—still camouflaged under brush, undisturbed. I peel the cover away and climb on, letting the repulsors hum to life beneath me. HUD syncs.
Power's almost full.
Drive core stable.
I double-check the essentials: materials for the uplink, food, batteries, tools, and the signal processor components. Everything's there.
"PDA," I mutter. "Where's the uplink site?"
"Location marker established.
Terrain: Elevated plateau. Altitude: 312 meters.
Estimated traversal time: 8 minutes via current transport."
A waypoint appears on my HUD. I can see the destination from here. I tilt my head.
"That's it? That's not a mountain."
"Clarification:
Geological classification: hill.
Elevation sufficient for transmission amplification."
"Fine," I mutter, gunning the Gullwing forward.
The hoverbike glides effortlessly across the uneven terrain, bouncing slightly as I rise over low roots and brush. The landscape slopes gently at first, then begins to curve upward—a grassy climb dotted with rock outcroppings. I take the incline easily, repulsors adjusting automatically.
Halfway up the slope, the HUD flickers.
"Motion Warning."
Before I can even react, someone appears in the middle of the path.
Not teleported—just fast.
He's tall—maybe six-foot-two—with hard, narrow eyes and a lean, hungry frame. His hair's tied back in a jagged black ponytail, and he has a forehead protector dangling from his belt, the metal plate scratched clean through. His cloak is patchy and scorched, armor peeking through at the shoulders, one sleeve torn off to reveal a forearm wrapped in old, bloodstained bandages.
There's no mistaking it—he's dangerous.
He tilts his head when he sees the Gullwing, eyes scanning it like a predator might scan unfamiliar prey.
"The hell is that?" he mutters. Then he grins, teeth yellowed, eyes glittering. "Don't care. It's mine now."
I start to reverse, hands tightening on the control grips. "Look—just… don't. I need this."
"Yeah? So do I," he replies, voice gravelly.
He flicks his wrist.
Something clips the edge of my helmet, cracks the visor glass with a sharp snap.
"Shit—!"
I kill the engine and raise both hands. The Gullwing hovers silently in place. "Okay. Fine. Take it."
I'll make another. Jesus.
He steps closer, never taking his eyes off me. "That's better..."
I back away slowly. Then he adds, almost as an afterthought—
"Still gonna kill you, though."
He lunges. Slower than before.
Oh fuck.
I whip the stasis rifle from its sling on my back, fire mid-step. The energy sphere launches—slow, humming. He sidesteps with a blur of motion, slides around it, and drives some sort of knife into my gut.
I feel it puncture the suit. Then skin.
My knees buckle.
"Vital signs critical."
He's close. Practically chest-to-chest now, his breath hot against the visor. His eyes lock on mine. Absorbing the moment.
"This is the problem with people," he mutters, low and casual, as though he's commenting on the weather. "Always think they're the main character. Some storybook hero. You know how many of you I've put down? Every single one of you stares up like I'm the plot twist."
He presses the blade deeper. Firm. Controlled.
"You're not special. You're just next."
I grunt, fingers fumbling. My glove finds the familiar shape clipped to my thigh.
Click.
The survival knife slides free.
He's too busy watching my face. Watching my eyes. Waiting for that last flicker of defiance to go out.
"...You talk too much," I gunt out.
I slide the knife up into his side.
There's not a hint of resistance as the blade hits bone, slipping between ribs with a clean, practiced line. He gasps, breath catching sharp in his throat. His eyes widen.
He stumbles backward, one hand going to the wound, the other still clutching the strangely shaped knife now slick with my blood. His knees give out a second later. He falls to his side in the grass, gasping, mouth working for words he doesn't find.
I go down. Hard.
The HUD's flashing red, emergency vitals cycling fast. I grit my teeth and yank the medkit from my inventory with a shaking hand. I grab the injector and stab it into my thigh.
A cold rush spreads through my leg, racing up my spine. The pain dulls in seconds, then numbs. Flesh begins knitting. Bleeding slows. The suit auto-repairs around the puncture site.
"Vital signs stabilizing."
My breathing evens out. I stare at the fallen ninja, still curled on his side, barely twitching.
I think about it—just for a second.
I have another medkit. I could use it on him.
Prevent myself from becoming a murderer.
But… no. No, if I do that, he'll kill me the second he gets a second wind. I have no way of holding him, no idea what this superhuman can do.
I can't afford that nobility.
Not with six lives hurtling toward the same sky that killed my crew.
I stand, blood drying inside the undersuit, and limp back toward the Gullwing. The bike's still hovering, repulsors humming low, ready.
I climb on.
And without looking back, I hit the throttle.
The Gullwing hums steadily beneath me as I crest the last ridge, the terrain leveling out into a broad, flat summit of compacted stone and wild grass. Wind rushes past in long, even bursts, whistling through sparse trees. Clouds hang heavy on the horizon, orange bleeding into gray. I've got maybe twelve hours of daylight left. Less if the weather turns.
Perfect place for a desperate broadcast.
I step off the bike and start building immediately.
The Habitat Builder's nanite projector lights up with a familiar flicker, casting holograms ahead of construction like ghost scaffolding. I drop titanium and lead into the loader and place the foundation first—flat, stable, low to the ground. The platform seals into the earth with a pneumatic hiss, anchored tight against the hilltop wind.
Next: the multipurpose room. The room finishes assembling, airtight and ready. My new forward base.
I plant a hatch, then solar panels on the roof. One, then two. The panels start soaking in sunlight, and power rushes in—just enough to get the oxygen cycling.
I climb inside and install a fabricator against the wall, followed by a radio, then the bioreactor in the center of the room. It rises from the floor like an engine from the deep—humming, open, waiting for biomass. I toss in some stinging nettle.
I use the fabricator to craft the required components. Newest being the Conductive Biofiber.
Then, I bring up the blueprint that matters most.
The transmission array room connects a hallway right to the multipurpose room. The Habitat Builder integrates the components like a puzzle: power cell locked in beneath the central dish, conductive biofiber wrapping the joints, cables snaking through pre-sealed ports. When it locks into place, it lets out a long, deep tone.
Low-band connection initialized. Uplink scaffold online.
Inside, I slot the Signal Processor into the housing interface, near the base of the dish. Compact, efficient, glowing softly once activated. It links directly with the array—translating message data into compressed pulse transmissions. A heartbeat that can cross hundreds of kilometers.
Next, I fabricate and install the Capacitor Bank—a blocky, dense power unit that clicks into the floor mount. It's already drawing slow current from the solar panels. Its only job is to release everything at once, delivering a single, high-energy signal burst capable of piercing orbital clutter.
Last—Signal Boosters. I build three. Mount them directly to the walls of the habitat, low-profile panels tuned with magnetite and silver. They purr faintly when powered. Not enough to shout through the stars, but enough to be heard.
Everything links. Every module locks into the next. The entire structure feels like a nervous system now—alive and tense, ready to scream one signal into the sky.
It's done.
I step back. One hand on my ribs. Still a little sore from earlier.
Wind scrapes across the mountain top, bending the grass like water. The dish above hums with low frequency.
I check the capacitors.
Charging.
It'll take time.
That's all I have left to gamble.
"Alright, run diagnostics, what are we working with?"
Transmission Diagnostics:
Query: Determine effective broadcast range, time to send message, and power requirements using current uplink configuration.
Input:
Transmission Power: 500 units (bioreactor charged)
Power Unit Conversion: 1 PU ≈ 0.13 Wh
Discharge Duration: 0.5 seconds
Frequency: 437 MHz (emergency band)
Antenna Type: Basic dipole array, omnidirectional
Signal Processor: Active
Signal Boosters: maxed
Environment: Mountain summit, 312 m elevation
Result:
Estimated Effective Range: ~1,873,065 km
Calculation (Friis Transmission Equation):
Using transmitter and receiver gains of 2 dBi, wavelength of 0.686 meters, and energy discharge of 234 kJ in 0.5s:
(d = sqrt((Pt * Gt * Gr * lambda^2) / (Pr * (4 * pi)^2)))
≈1,873,065 km
This exceeds low orbit, high orbit, lunar distance, and deep-system positioning. Transmission integrity considered excellent for short text-based bursts.
Time to Charge:
At current bioreactor yield of 50 PU/min, and max capacity 500 PU:
Charge Time: 10 minutesClick to expand...
"Wait. That's... way more than I expected. Was all of this even necessary?"
"Uplink architecture exceeds minimum viable range; however, system was not constructed to achieve arbitrary distance. It was constructed to overcome specific planetary threats to transmission clarity, including:
Electromagnetic distortion from planetary magnetosphere
Ionospheric plasma interference
Surface-originated magnetic bursts
Signal diffraction from mountainous terrain
Unknown energy signature interference (category: anomalous/biological)
Additional reasoning:
The Aurora was destroyed while still in orbit. Trajectory analysis indicate a directed energy weapon with astronomical reach and tracking capability.
Conclusion:
Sunbeam may enter weapon range before orbital deceleration. A single transmission, even of sufficient energy, may not be received with enough time for evasive maneuvers or course correction.
Recommendation:
Initiate multiple pulse transmissions over the next 24–56 hours. Redundant bursts may scatter or degrade but increase probability of reception. Even partial packets may delay descent."
I take a breath, staring at the capacitors. The uplink dish hums faintly above, shivering under the mountain wind.
"Do it," I say.
Transmission Confirmed.
Message Sent:
Aurora shot down. Do not approach.
Encoding: Orbital-grade pulse compression
Format: Binary, loss-resistant
Bandwidth: 437.000 MHz
Priority: Emergency
Capacitor Bank Discharged.
System entering cooldown. Recharging...Click to expand...
I watch the capacitor status drop from full to zero in an instant. The reactor hums louder now, rebuilding power unit by unit. I can already feel the pressure in my chest start to release—like I finally screamed after days of holding my breath.
But it's not over.
"How long," I ask. "Until they receive it?"
"Signal burst propagates at the speed of light (c ≈ 299,792 km/s).
Estimated Sunbeam location: ~51 AU from planet surface.
(1 AU ≈ 149,597,870.7 km)
Transmission Time (one way):
~6 hours, 52 minutes, 31 seconds
However—
Sunbeam is currently decelerating toward system entry point. Sensor triangulation incomplete. Uncertainty margin: ±14 hours.
Earliest possible reception:
1 day, 20 hours, 14 minutes from transmission
Latest possible reception:
2 days, 10 hours, 39 minutes"
I lean against the cold metal wall of the uplink chamber, watching the capacitor meter tick slowly upward.
Two days.
If nothing goes wrong.
"Alright," I mutter. "Then keep sending it. Every ten minutes. Until the capacitors melt or the sky burns."
The PDA does not respond. But the capacitor bank continues charging.
Chakra signature: 4 → 10