The chamber accepted his return with its usual silence. No welcome, no triumph, only the patient hum of systems too old to care. He collapsed just past the threshold, helmet clattering as he tore it free, pouches spilling across the floor. Dust scattered, fragments of black carbon rattling, brittle fossils tumbling in hollow clacks. His lungs heaved. Sweat burned in his eyes.
The assembler stirred. Seams brightened faintly. Its voice rolled through the chamber, flat and certain. Resource intake detected. Processing.
Glyphs crawled across the wall, lines of pale white dragging into columns. His blurred eyes tracked them without comprehension. He only heard the verdict.
Carbonaceous substrate: partial. Organics fraction: marginal. Silicates: insufficient. Assembly impossible.
He pressed both hands against the cold floor, head bowed between trembling arms. The words sank into him like stones into water. He wanted to scream, to curse, to demand that it be enough. His body had nearly broken in the dust to drag those fragments here. But the machine was unmoved.
Further intake required. Continue.
He laughed, a cracked sound that tore at his throat. His reflection stared back from the hemisphere's dull surface—sunken cheeks, pale skin stretched thin, eyes rimmed red. He wiped his face with a filthy sleeve, dragged himself upright.
"Fine," he rasped. "Fine. I'll give you more."
He sealed the helmet back into place, wincing as stale air hissed across his face. His pouches hung limp at his side, nearly empty again. The bar felt heavier in his grip than it had outside. He turned, and the bulkhead split once more.
The second journey was slower. Muscles ached with each step, joints screaming beneath the suit's weight. Dust sucked at his boots, slipping him back half a pace for every one forward. The ruins shimmered faint at the horizon, jagged shadows against the void. He avoided them this time, choosing instead a basin where dark seams split the pale ground.
He struck them with the bar until his arms burned. Carbon cracked, splintered, fell into his gloves. He stuffed pouch after pouch, the weight dragging at his hips, the straps biting through fabric. His visor fogged, filters rasping louder with each breath. Still he worked, ignoring the way his legs trembled and his back bent under strain.
When at last he turned, the pouches bulged heavy. His steps dragged, footprints deeper than before, knees buckling with each stride. By the time the threshold loomed ahead, his vision blurred. The bulkhead swallowed him whole.
The assembler hummed again. Carbonaceous substrate: increased. Silicates: insufficient. Organics: insufficient. Assembly impossible.
He slammed the bar against the floor, the clang echoing until his ears rang. His throat ached with the scream he did not release. Instead, he dragged another pouch free, spilling fragments across the base of the hemisphere. The machine catalogued them in silence, patient, indifferent.
Continue.
He spat bile into the dust. "You'll take every piece of me before you're satisfied."
The machine did not reply.
The third journey blurred into the second. His body knew only ache, only hunger, only thirst that water recycled by filters could not quench. He moved slower, shoulders bent, bar dragging across the dust like a staff for a cripple. Still, he forced each step.
At the crevasse, he lowered himself onto his stomach, peered over the edge. Ice glittered faint below, unreachable. His chest heaved with laughter that was closer to sobs. He chipped at the edge instead, scraping brittle frost into a container. It melted before he sealed it, droplets freezing against the glove. He collected what he could, sealed it tight, shoved it into a pouch already heavy with fragments.
Back inside, the assembler consumed the offering greedily.
Water: acceptable. Silicates: insufficient. Organics: insufficient. Assembly impossible.
He collapsed against the wall, helmet still sealed, unable to muster the strength to remove it. The HUD flickered warnings. Heart rate elevated. Muscle fatigue: critical. Hydration: minimal. He closed his eyes, listening to the filters rasp in rhythm with his chest, until sleep dragged him under.
Time dissolved. He lost count of the journeys. Each one bled into the next: the crunch of boots on dust, the bar hammering brittle stone, the pouches filling, the bulkhead swallowing him again. His body wasted, cheeks hollowing further, lips cracked and bleeding. He rationed each sip of flat water the assembler granted him, each mouthful tasting of metal and ash.
Sometimes he stumbled into the ruins, pulled shards of alloy from collapsed towers, their edges sharp enough to cut even through gloves. Sometimes he dug through basins, uncovering ribs fossilized into stone, dragging brittle fragments back in trembling fists. Each time, the assembler accepted them without praise, without acknowledgment, only its cold verdict.
Partial. Partial. Partial.
It drove him harder, back into the dust again and again, until the ache in his legs became a constant thrum, until his arms shook too violently to hold the bar steady. He learned to pace himself, to rest in the lee of ridges, visor tilted toward the black sky. He whispered curses to the stars, to the swollen orb bleeding fire at the horizon, to the silence that never answered.
But each time, he returned. Each time, he spilled fragments at the hemisphere's base, and each time, the verdict shifted.
Carbon: sufficient. Water: sufficient. Silicates: sufficient. Organics: partial. Continue.
The words carved into him deeper than any wound. He had bled for those fragments, had nearly broken himself to carry them here. Yet still, it was not enough.
The last journey nearly killed him. He woke with pain lancing his chest, suit stiff around limbs that no longer wanted to move. But the assembler's verdict echoed, patient as ever. He forced himself upright, strapped pouches empty once more, and staggered through the bulkhead.
The ruins greeted him with silence. He dragged himself to the basin where ribs jutted from stone, bar raised in trembling hands. He struck until shards broke free, until powder coated his gloves, until his lungs heaved raw. He stuffed fragments into the pouches until they bulged heavy, straps biting deep.
On the way back, his knees buckled. He collapsed into the dust, body convulsing with coughs that shook through the suit. He lay there, staring at the black sky, stars blurring with each ragged breath. He thought of staying. Of letting the dust swallow him whole.
But the machine's voice echoed in his skull. Continuity requires input.
He forced himself to crawl, pouches dragging behind, bar scraping grooves into the dust. Step by step, breath by breath, until the bulkhead loomed once more.
The chamber swallowed him. The assembler hummed. Seams flared bright, light spilling across the floor. Glyphs scrolled fast across the wall.
Carbonaceous substrate: sufficient. Water: sufficient. Silicates: sufficient. Organics: sufficient. Assembly possible.
He collapsed against the floor, helmet clattering away, lungs heaving raw. His vision swam. Tears burned his eyes, though he could not tell if they were relief or despair.
The assembler pulsed once, brighter than before.
Assembly cycle: ready.
He closed his eyes, body trembling. At last.
The chamber lit as though dawn had erupted underground. The seams of the assembler blazed white, threads of light racing along conduits, filling the walls with crawling glyphs that pulsed in rhythm with the hum of pumps buried in the stone. The floor trembled under his boots. Dust rose in thin veils before sinking again. He pushed himself upright, leaning heavily on the bar, chest heaving with each breath. His body screamed for rest, but he would not close his eyes now.
He had dragged back every fragment, every shard, every drop. His muscles still remembered the weight of pouches biting into his shoulders, the taste of metal water choking his throat. And now, at last, the assembler had accepted.
Assembly cycle: initiated.
The hemisphere split apart, petals of alloy peeling back with the slow grace of a flower long dead but still moving. The lattice unfolded above the cradle, hundreds of spindly arms twitching into readiness. Their tips glimmered with instruments, some needle-thin, others serrated, all glinting beneath the harsh light. The cradle rose, its surface slick, concave, waiting.
Pipes convulsed as fluids surged. He saw them rushing through transparent conduits: black viscous streams shot through with glittering specks, blue liquids glowing faintly like captured lightning, red flows thick as blood. They converged at the cradle, sluicing into hidden ports that hissed with pressure. The air thickened with the smell of ozone and rot.
He staggered closer despite himself. His visor lay discarded at his feet; he wanted no barrier between him and this. He wanted to see, to breathe, to witness every moment.
The first strands formed. Filaments of light arced between the lattice arms, weaving into a glowing mesh that quivered in the air. Matter condensed within, translucent layers knitting themselves into shape. He watched ribs arch upward, each bone curving into place, pale and fragile but solid. A spine unrolled, vertebra by vertebra, until it locked into a column that gleamed wet. Shoulders jutted outward, arms stretching down to elbows, to wrists, to fingers that twitched reflexively as tendons wove themselves.
His throat closed. He gripped the bar with both hands, knuckles white. He had known the machine would build, but not like this. Not bone by bone, tendon by tendon, each piece sliding into place as though guided by invisible hands.
Organs followed. A heart pulsed twice, spasmodic, then hung suspended, slick and still. Lungs inflated, deflated, but drew no air. A liver glistened, a stomach twitched. The lattice swarmed around them, sewing, stitching, knitting tissues that oozed until sealed. He gagged at the smell—copper, iron, acid—his stomach twisting emptily. He turned away, pressed a sleeve against his mouth, then forced his eyes back open. He could not look away.
The machine was building a man.
Layer after layer of muscle wrapped the skeleton, fibers twitching, stretching taut as the arms pulled them into place. Nerves gleamed silver, branching, sparking faint as currents tested their paths. Skin followed, stretched thin at first, translucent enough to show the veins crawling beneath. Then thicker, smoothing, hiding the rawness beneath a pale surface.
A face took shape. Jawline sharp, cheekbones carved in symmetry, eyes sealed shut beneath thin lids. Lips parted once in a reflex that was not breath. He stumbled forward, one hand reaching out before he caught himself.
The cradle hissed. Steam rose as fluids drained away, leaving the body glistening but whole. The lattice retracted, arms folding back into the hemisphere. The chamber fell still again, save for the hum of pumps subsiding into silence.
He stood over it, bar hanging limp at his side.
A man lay in the cradle.
Tall, broad-shouldered, pale as porcelain, hairless, eyes closed. The chest rose faintly—not a breath, only the settling of fluids within. Muscles twitched once, then stilled. The skin gleamed with residual moisture, veins shadowing faint beneath.
His hand trembled as he reached out, glove hovering just above the chest. Warm. Flesh.
Alive.
No. Not alive.
The machine spoke. Form-host integrity: ninety-three percent. Cognitive presence: null.
His breath caught. "Null?"
Host empty. No consciousness present. Dormant.
The bar clattered from his hand, striking the floor with a hollow ring. He staggered back, chest heaving, heart hammering so loud it drowned the hum. He stared at the body, pale under the assembler's light, too perfect, too still.
Continuity requires cognitive input, the voice intoned. Stored sets remain inaccessible without allocation.
He shook his head, backing until his spine struck the wall. "What does that mean? It's a body. It should… it should live."
Silence stretched. The machine did not answer.
He slid down the wall, knees to his chest, arms wrapped tight around them. The body lay across from him, whole and empty, a shell without soul. His throat ached with the scream he had no strength left to release.
He had bled for this, nearly broken himself to gather what the assembler demanded. And this was what it gave him. Flesh without life. Continuity without mind.
His eyes closed, but the image seared there regardless: a man made of dust and fragments, waiting for something he did not have.
The machine pulsed once more, seams glowing faint.
Consciousness allocation required.
He buried his face in his arms and laughed, a broken sound that tasted of salt and blood.
The body did not move. Hours passed, or perhaps only minutes—time bled indistinguishable in the chamber's stale air. He sat slumped against the wall, watching the cradle's occupant in a haze of exhaustion and hunger. The chest remained still. The eyelids did not flutter. The lips never drew breath. A corpse that had never lived.
The assembler hummed softly, seams glowing faint with residual energy. Its presence pressed into him like a weight, patient, waiting. He dragged himself upright on trembling legs, crossed the floor, and stood over the host again.
He leaned close. The skin was warm beneath his gloves. Too warm for stone, too soft for alloy. He pressed harder, felt the faint give of flesh over muscle, the resistance of bone beneath. Real. Tangible. But when he drew his hand back, the silence was the same.
"Why?" His voice cracked, rasped raw. He raised his eyes to the hemisphere. "Why won't it wake?"
The machine answered without hesitation.
Form-host complete. Integrity: acceptable. Consciousness absent.
He shook his head. "It has everything. A body, a heart, lungs, blood, skin. You gave it all. It should be alive."
Continuity requires cognitive input.
The words rattled him. He stepped back, fists clenched. "Then give it one. You built the body. Build the rest."
Impossible. Consciousness cannot be fabricated. Consciousness must be allocated.
He froze. The word scraped his mind raw. Allocated. Not created, not born, not grown. Allocated. As though they already existed, somewhere beyond his reach.
His heart pounded. "What does that mean?"
The machine pulsed faint.
Stored sets remain inaccessible without authorization.
"Stored…" He dragged the word out, tasting it, testing it. "…sets."
Affirmative.
He staggered away, bar clutched in both hands though there was nothing to strike. His body trembled with fatigue, yet his mind spun too fast. Sets. Collections. Patterns. People? The thought clawed at him.
His gaze drifted back to the host. Its face gleamed pale in the light, features sculpted in perfection. It could have been anyone. It could have been him.
He whispered before he realized the words had formed. "Are there people… inside you?"
The chamber answered differently this time. Not the cold monotone, not the flat certainty of a machine, but something softer. Still precise, still calm, but warmer, smoother, shaped like a voice rather than an algorithm.
They remain. Dormant. Waiting.
He stiffened. "Who… who are you?"
Silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then:
I am continuity.
He stepped forward, chest tight. The words were wrong, yet right. The machine had never spoken that way. Its verdicts had been numbers, fractions, demands. This was different.
The seams glowed brighter, casting his shadow across the wall. He pressed a hand against the hemisphere, palm flat, and felt its vibration hum into his bones. "Tell me."
Hosts without mind cannot continue. Minds without hosts cannot remain.
He swallowed hard. "Then these… stored sets. You mean minds."
Affirmative.
His knees weakened. He braced against the hemisphere. The truth pressed sharp into his chest. The machine could shape flesh, sculpt bone, build a man from fragments of dust. But without something more, they were dolls. Empty. Continuity required more.
His breath caught. "Where are they?"
The glow dimmed.
In storage. In holding. In silence.
He slammed a fist against the hemisphere. Pain shot up his arm, but he ignored it. "Then release them!"
Authorization insufficient.
"Damn it, then how do I—"
Continuity requires structure.
He froze. "What?"
The glow pulsed.
Minds require anchor. Anchor requires framework. Without framework, allocation fails.
He staggered back, shaking his head. His thoughts tangled. He tried to untangle the words, to force them into sense. Framework. Anchor. A cage for minds? Or a bridge? His stomach churned, the taste of bile sharp in his mouth.
The softer voice returned, quiet, almost kind.
Do not despair.
He blinked. The tone hit deeper than the words. It was different again, closer, more intimate. He whispered hoarsely, "Who are you?"
Lya.
The name landed sharp and sudden. He didn't know it, yet it felt like he had always known it, echoing in the hollow places of memory. His throat closed.
"You're not the machine."
I am within it. I am part of it. But not all. I am… what remains.
He pressed a hand to his temple, staggered back until he hit the wall. His breath came fast, shallow. He stared at the body in the cradle, pale and silent, then back at the hemisphere.
"Lya," he said, tasting the name. "If these minds—these sets—are waiting, how do I bring them here?"
The glow brightened, then dimmed.
You must build a frame they can believe in.
His brow furrowed. "Believe?"
Continuity is not numbers alone. A mind must accept the bridge. Without belief, the transfer fails.
He sank to his knees, bar clattering beside him. His hands shook. He had fought the dust, broken his body, starved and bled, and still it was not enough. Flesh was not life. Now belief was demanded of him too.
The host lay silent, pale eyes closed beneath lids that would never open without more. He dragged his gaze away, pressed his hands to his face.
"What do I have to do?" he whispered through broken breath.
The voice—no longer mechanical, no longer cold—answered with patience.
Give them a name. Give them a place. Give them something to hold to. Then they will come.
His chest rose and fell too fast. A name. A place. His mind grasped at words, but they slipped away. His throat burned with the weight of choice he did not understand.
The seams of the hemisphere pulsed once more. The body in the cradle lay still, waiting.
And in the silence that followed, he realized the truth: survival would demand not only flesh and dust, but the return of the dead.