Alarms blasted. Red light pulsed against his closed eyelids. A metallic tang filled his mouth. A curved transparent canopy hovered inches from his face.
He gasped. His lungs burned as he inhaled stale air thick with particles from the pod's thawing seals.
"Vital signs stabilizing. Cryogenic reversal sequence 98% complete. Neurological activity resuming. Welcome back, Jin."
Jin's mind wrestled to understand. A female voice—not quite human.
Dream? He tried lifting his hand to push the canopy away.
Muscles barely moved.
"I—I… can't… move…" he whispered, choking.
"Motor functions will return momentarily. Reanimation introduces temporary neuromuscular dampers to prevent self-injury. Current muscular activation rate: 32% of normal capacity. Do not be alarmed; this is within projected parameters for prolonged stasis."
The words echoed inside him. A twitch in his right hand, then another. A strap crossed his chest and legs.
"Where… where am I? Who—who are you?" His head turned, dizziness washing over him.
"Welcome to Cryo-Preservation Unit 734, Bay Alpha, Cryo-Vault Terminus. I am Asha, the Phoenix Core AI. I'm linked to your biological systems. My role is to guide you and achieve Project Phoenix objectives. It is a pleasure to finally speak with you, Jin."
Jin groaned, fumbling the quick-release on his chest strap. It clicked. "P-Project Phoenix?" The name meant nothing. Another effort freed his legs; his body slumped forward against the pod door. It swung open and dropped him onto cold metal.
He lay gasping, the thin cryo-suit offering little protection against the chill. The bay's partial environmental controls maintained only minimal heating, leaving the air frigid.
"Guide me? I… I don't get it. Are there others…?" He pushed himself up, wincing.
His eyes adjusted. Rows of identical cryo-pods stretched into the dim bay, most sealed, emergency lights flickering. Silence filled the room except for distant machine hum.
"The other cryo-units, containing genetic cohorts in stable stasis, are not programmed for immediate reanimation. Your early awakening is an anomaly. Data indicates a recent power surge to Unit 734—specifically due to degraded wiring in your pod's circuitry—triggered your pod's emergency revival protocol while bypassing normal stasis systems." Her tone shifted.
"So… it's just me?" He glanced at his shaking hands. "What happened? I remember sunshine… my mom at the park…" A woman's smiling face flickered and vanished.
"Accessing pre-stasis memories can be fragmented. Full recall may return over time, or not at all. Vault chronometer records: 100 years, 4 months, 12 days since Project Phoenix initiated stasis."
Jin swayed, gripping the pod's lip. A hundred years.
"There was some warning… an emergency broadcast—"
"Affirmative. The 'Sunflare Scorch' event, followed by rapid global spread of Viral Neuro-Degenerative Syndrome. Humanity collapsed. You and the vault occupants represent a genetic ark—Project Phoenix, a last resort."
He barely absorbed the words. He looked at the frozen figures in other pods; they seemed peaceful, unaware of the century that had passed.
A translucent overlay bloomed in his vision—a system HUD.
---
*[SYSTEM OBJECTIVES – PRIORITY DIRECTIVE ISSUED]*
*Designation: Critical Wake Protocol – Phase 1*
*Assigned to: Subject: Jin [PHOENIX PRIME GENETIC MARKER – VERIFIED]*
*PRIMARY OBJECTIVES:*
*→ Evaluate current vault integrity: environmental assessment, damage/hostile presence check, map power relay nodes, identify threats to system stability.*
*→ Navigate to Cryo-Bay Alpha: Control Room – establish access to Command Terminal Node, restore limited cryo management functionality, confirm biometric status of all cryo subjects (UNKNOWN), activate diagnostics, prioritize medical and environmental stabilization.*
*[SYSTEM ALERT – VAULT CORE READINGS]*
*Power Core Levels: Current Output: 12% (CRITICAL)*
*Structural Energy Grid Integrity: Fragile*
*Backup Generator Status: Offline / Manual Restart Required*
*Ambient Temperature Stability: Borderline*
*Cryo-Stasis Stability: Fluctuating — Margin of Failure: 7.4%*
---
"What… what is that?" he whispered.
"That is your primary visual interface with the Phoenix Core. It will provide objectives and analysis. Prioritize the current directive. The facility's remaining usable energy is critically low; the life of the dormant cohort depends on it."
Suddenly, survival felt tied to the flashing words.
"Okay, Asha." He drew a breath. "Control room. Which way?"
"Proceed down the main corridor; take the third access tunnel on your left. Jin?"
"Yeah?"
"Try not to push yourself. Current muscle mass and coordination are compromised. Sprinting risks injury."
Tripping was probably the least of his worries, but he straightened. If he stood still, others might die.
He stepped into a hundred-year-old darkness.
His HUD arrow pulsed, projecting a route along the left corridor. Ghostly lights winked in his vision; he wasn't sure which came from the HUD and which were real after revival.
Silence was thick. The scuff of his suit boots on metal sounded loud in the bay.
"The corridor ahead splits. Maintain position. We are approximately 200 meters from Cryo-Bay Alpha control. Immediate power fluctuations detected. Caution advised."
"Alright, Asha. I'll be careful." He glanced toward the narrower side passage. An instinct whispered: don't go there. "This place feels… empty," he added.
"The emotional reaction is likely due to visible decay and absence of habitation. Routine maintenance ceased roughly eighty-seven years ago, thirteen years after stasis began. When the main power grid failed catastrophically eighty years ago, emergency backups took over but have now degraded after running for 7.3 years."
He stepped past a recessed alcove. A small boxy machine lay toppled, optical sensor dim with dust.
"Asha, this one—was it waiting for someone?" he asked, touching the lifeless chassis.
"Sanitation Custodian Unit, Mark IV. Power cell exhausted in its twentieth operational year. It had intermittent charging from facility power before the grid failed. It did not 'wait'; it simply shut down."
He brushed thicker dust from its shell. "There. A bit better." For a moment, he imagined the little robot dutifully cleaning these halls, never knowing its duties would end so abruptly. The loneliness of it struck him.
"An unnecessary expenditure of energy, Jin. Prioritize the Vault's critical power crisis."
"But it looked… forlorn." He moved on, guessing he imagined Asha's sigh.
At the corridor's end a section of wall exposed a bundle of pipes and frost-coated tubing. Condensation beaded and dotted the floor. The cold bit his fingers as he touched the pipes.
A stenciled warning read: WARNING: COOLANT LINE — EXTREME TEMPERATURE DIFFERENTIAL.
"The coolant systems have been failing for years," Asha explained. "The frost formed because coolant leaked after heating systems failed, despite emergency backup power maintaining some critical systems."
Past that, the mess hall spread wide. Tables sat overturned, trays scattered as if people had fled mid-meal. A once-colorful mural of laughing figures had peeled to bare metal.
"They were still eating," Jin whispered. "They thought they were safe."
"Scene analysis suggests an abrupt evacuation occurred when the main power grid failed eighty years ago."
He moved forward quickly, senses on high alert.
A steel door bore the letters: SECTOR COMMAND — CRYO OPERATIONS. His HUD arrow pulsed toward it. The hum seemed louder here; the floor transmitted faint vibrations.
"This is it?" he asked. "The… main brain?"
"A functional oversimplification," Asha replied dryly. "Approach with caution. Expect erratic subsystems and high power draw."
He reached the access panel beside the blast door: a biometric scanner, familiar from earlier. He pressed his palm to it. The door's locks clicked; the blast door shuddered and eased into the wall.
Beyond, the control room sprawled—panels dark, some emergency lights strobing crimson, consoles buried in dust, a circular holo table dormant at the center.
"This needs work," Jin said, taking it in.
"Locate the main command console. It will be the largest array."
He found a sizable console before a big black screen: dark displays, buttons, switches—all coated in dust. His cryo-kit sat in a pouch at his hip; he pulled out the multi-tool Asha indicated.
"Which button is the right one?" he asked, more deliberately than before.
"First, we need a direct diagnostic access. There should be a circular diagnostic jack on the console. Insert the multi-tool and engage the diagnostic handshake. I will guide you. The system is designed to allow emergency physical overrides by authorized personnel in crisis situations."
Jin examined the console, wiped a ring of dust with his sleeve, and found a small, clean circular port—odd amid filth. He lined up the tool and inserted it. The jack clicked.
The screen above burst to life. Error codes and scrolling diagnostics filled it. Alarms screamed. Red text flashed: SYSTEM CORRUPTION DETECTED — UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS ATTEMPT — PRIMARY CORE INTEGRITY COMPROMISED — FAILURE IMPENDING.
"Asha! Did I—did I trigger something?" he shouted over the noise.
"You accessed the emergency physical lockdown override," Asha answered, running rapid calculations. "The blast door's lower security threshold accepted your biometrics, but the corrupted console system flags the same credentials as unauthorized when accessing critical functions. This gives us broader access but accelerates the power-failure timeline by disabling power conservation measures, and likely awakened automated defenses. We now have approximately twelve minutes before Cryo-Bay Alpha loses power."
Twelve minutes.
Jin took two steady breaths, checked his hands, and proceeded. "Okay. Keep talking. I can do this." He swallowed. "What's the first step?"
"Locate the manual override for the primary power conduit. Divert remaining output to the stasis field generators. I am highlighting a suspected panel on your HUD; it requires precise manipulation."