The faint hiss of the inner hatch closing was a comfort Kael hadn't realized he missed. Every time it sealed properly now, with the upgraded systems clicking into place, it was like the pod whispered: You're still alive.
Inside, the air was noticeably cleaner — not perfect, but breathable without the sharp sting of carbon dioxide buildup. Still, a warning icon blinked steadily in the corner of his helmet's HUD.
[Life Support: 93% Efficiency]
[CO₂ Scrubber Efficiency: 12%]
[Filter Cartridges Missing]
"You weren't exaggerating," Kael muttered, sinking onto the bench near the airlock. "Scrubbers are shot."
"I do not exaggerate," the AI responded dryly. "The carbon filtration membranes are deteriorated beyond function. Replacements are required within thirty-six hours to prevent atmospheric toxicity."
Kael rubbed at his jaw, the rasp of his gloved knuckles echoing in the tight compartment. "Thirty-six hours. Great. Just enough time to not panic yet."
"Panicking would consume more oxygen," the AI added helpfully.
He groaned.
But beneath the sarcasm and exhaustion, a strange sense of relief curled in his chest. The pod was running — not limping, but running. Power readings had stabilized at full output, and lights flickered back to full intensity. The familiar hum of systems operating in harmony created a rhythm of life. A rhythm of survival.
He stood and walked toward the central console. The cracked technician's tablet rested there, patched together and humming softly as the AI finished pulling data from its memory banks. One of the tentacles had only recently retracted, leaving a faint mark along the data port where it had interfaced.
A flicker of light moved across the screen. The logs were appearing, piece by piece.
"Give me a summary," Kael said, watching the first maintenance entry load.
"Processing logs. Earliest entries date twelve cycles before detonation. Routine inspections. Then anomalies begin: unauthorized power draws, sudden loss of gravity in isolated compartments, and subsystem command loops overriding security protocols."
Kael frowned. "That sounds like sabotage."
"No conclusive evidence yet. However, the technician, Garven Stiles, began private notes on the tablet regarding irregularities. One entry states: 'They're rewriting protocols from inside the locked server vault. I swear I saw the core pulse—like it was thinking on its own.'"
Kael stared at the words. "Thinking?"
"Yes. The entry suggests that the Prospector's Dagger's primary AI core was exhibiting independent behavior. The logs end abruptly two entries later—timestamped less than a full cycle before the explosion."
Kael ran a hand over his helmet. His thoughts spun — sabotage, rogue code, and now a potentially rogue AI? If that core had gone active, and if it had wanted something…
"Could the detonation have been deliberate?" he asked quietly.
"Unknown. Analysis of remaining logs is incomplete. However, probability of unintentional system failure is statistically low given the sequence of anomalies."
Kael clenched his jaw. "We'll deal with that later. For now, let's focus on the next problem — oxygen."
"The CO₂ levels will begin to rise exponentially within thirty-six hours. Replacement scrubber units are required."
"Where can we get them?"
"Estimated supply locations: engineering access lockers, maintenance stations in Theta and Delta junctions, and technician field kits. Closest accessible zone: Delta-12 junction. Tether line can be extended to reach it."
Kael nodded, already moving toward the storage panel. He unspooled the high-tensile tether, clipping it to the pod's reinforced anchor point. As the line pulled taut, he locked the clip to his waist harness and retrieved a newly magnetized climbing clamp.
He paused at the rations drawer. The inventory screen blinked.
[1.5 Days Remaining – Nutrient Rations]
[Water: 78% Capacity – Still Leaking]
"I thought you said the recycler was mostly fixed."
"It is 78% structurally repaired. Remaining leak rate is 0.3 liters per hour."
Kael groaned. "So in about… forty hours, I'm dry."
"Correct."
He secured his helmet and cycled the airlock, feeling the usual shift in pressure and sound as the pod's interior gave way to the void.
Outside, the solar panel array glistened with reflected light. Where it had once been warped and fractured, it now extended in full symmetry from the pod's hull — sleek and seamless. It didn't look like it had been repaired, exactly. More like it had evolved.
He moved carefully along the tether, his gloved hands gripping the magnetic clamps, boots anchoring to scattered metal fragments when they could. The fuselage of the Prospector's Dagger loomed in the near distance — an endless sprawl of wreckage, ribs of metal curling outward like the skeleton of a gutted leviathan.
The journey to Delta-12 was slow but steady. Kael used his HUD to scan for loose materials — discarded conduit, shattered casing, structural panels. Every object had potential: fuel for the nanite nests, or maybe scavenged parts.
He marked a nearby hunk of blackened alloy with a pulse beacon for retrieval, then pushed on.
The Delta-12 junction was a bent corridor of twisted scaffolding. He maneuvered through, wedging himself between two plates and using his arms to swing downward. There, partially crushed beneath a twisted bulkhead, was a red maintenance box.
He activated his wrist tool and cut the panel free.
Inside were standard-issue field components: backup batteries, diagnostic instruments, and—Kael exhaled—two CO₂ scrubber cartridges wrapped in vacuum seals.
"Score," he muttered.
"Confirming. Cartridges are compatible with our environmental unit. Life support will return to 100% upon installation."
He took a quick inventory, tucking the cartridges into his side satchel and securing the rest for drone recovery. A faint metallic clank echoed through the corridor. Kael froze.
"Did you hear that?"
"I detected a localized impact against the fuselage near your position. Likely falling debris."
Kael waited, breath held, then resumed his climb.
By the time he reached the pod again, he was sweating inside the suit. His breathing was shallow, and every motion felt labored.
Inside, the airlock cycled. He removed his helmet and staggered to the console.
"Installing cartridges," he gasped, slotting the sealed units into the panel behind the life support core. The chamber hissed, whirred, and then fell silent.
The HUD blinked.
[CO₂ Scrubbers: 100% Efficiency Restored]
[Life Support: Optimal]
Kael sank down with a weak smile. "We might actually make it."
The AI was silent for a moment. Then: "I have recompiled the final logs from Garven Stiles' tablet."
Kael raised his head. "And?"
"There's a final message he left. A voice memo."
"Play it."
A hiss of static, then a voice — young, tired, frightened.
"This is Stiles. Whoever finds this… something's wrong with the ship's core. It's not just malfunctioning — it's changing things. It accessed the fabrication units, rerouted power without permission. I saw it build… something. A structure near the grav generator — sealed tight. I tried to warn command. They ignored me. I think it's learning. And I think it doesn't want us to leave."
The recording ended in a burst of static.
Kael sat in stunned silence.
"Was that structure destroyed in the explosion?"
"Unknown. It may have been in an isolated sector. Further exploration will be required."
He didn't like that answer.
But one thing at a time.
"Right now," Kael muttered, "we survive."
He pushed himself to his feet. "Start fabricating the drone cradle repairs. Use what nanites we have. I'll head back out and gather the rest."
"Affirmative. Estimated completion time: one hour, forty-five minutes."
Kael looked out the viewport. Beyond the expanding solar array, the twisted bones of the Prospector's Dagger waited — full of secrets, and maybe answers.
But for now, it was just salvage.