The POM-1 clicked into place with a satisfying hum. The lights dimmed for a heartbeat—then surged back, steadier this time, like the pod had exhaled and finally found its rhythm.
[POWER OPTIMIZATION MODULE – ACTIVE]
ENERGY WASTE REDUCTION: 13%
BATTERY STABILITY: IMPROVED
REACTOR FLUCTUATION: WITHIN SAFE RANGE
Kael leaned back, fingers still resting on the console. For the first time since waking, he didn't feel like the entire ship was about to crumble under him. It was still bad—systems barely scraping together functionality—but now the bleeding had slowed. Stabilization. A precious foothold.
He twisted his neck until it popped, then stared at the flickering diagnostics feed.
Life support had steadied, though the air still tasted faintly metallic. Oxygen scrubber one had eked up to 33% output with the cleaner power draw. The cycling pressure unit was still unreliable, but at least it wasn't spiking as frequently. Cabin temperature had settled at a tolerable low, and the frost buildup near the hatch had begun to melt in slow rivulets.
One of those rivulets crept down the bulkhead beside him. He watched it, hypnotized, until a crackle from the console snapped him out of it.
[SCAVENGE PRIORITY UPDATE – MATERIALS DEPLETED]
NEXT OBJECTIVE: SYSTEM RECLAMATION – SECONDARY STORAGE UNIT DETECTED
LOCATION: STARBOARD ACCESS – INTERNAL PANEL B5
WARNING: PANEL COMPROMISED. HAZARD: SHARP DEBRIS / POSSIBLE SPARK RISK
Kael frowned and stood, crossing the narrow cabin. He hadn't paid much attention to B5—just another maintenance hatch behind the starboard couch. But now the AI marked it with a pulsing orange indicator.
He pried it open slowly. The panel resisted with a metallic shriek, then dropped free, revealing a tangled mess of shredded wiring, blown fuses, and warped brackets. A thin curl of smoke wafted from deep within the wall. A faint spark flared, then died.
But nestled between two bent supports was a sealed storage box—impact foam still intact.
He dragged it out carefully, avoiding the razor-sharp edges of fractured brackets. The foam crumbled under his fingers, but the container within clunked solidly as it hit the deck.
[STORAGE CRATE – AUXILIARY SYSTEMS MODULE]
CONTENTS:
– EM-3 Short-range scanner unit (unpowered)
– Obsolete repair tool: Arcspanner (charge depleted)
– High-efficiency thermal blanket
– Containment cell (empty)
– Drone parts: servo kit, micro-grip arm, lens node
Kael exhaled slowly. Jackpot.
The thermal blanket alone could stabilize cabin heat and reduce energy draw from the failing coils. But it was the scanner that held his attention.
He wiped dust from its housing. The unit was clunky—designed for short-range mapping and topography scans—but with a bit of tuning, it might extend his awareness beyond the paltry 52 meters of proximity radar. Enough to find more complex salvage, maybe even intact modules.
He connected the scanner to the diagnostics port. The screen blinked.
[EM-3 MODULE RECOGNIZED – POWER INSUFFICIENT]
REQUIRED: AUXILIARY CHARGE – 7 UNITS
OPTION: Deploy for limited passive scanning
Kael grimaced. The pod could barely keep lights on and maintain oxygen. Feeding the scanner a full charge was out of the question. But passive mode? That was doable.
He rerouted trickle power through the comms grid—a useless system, but its wiring still functioned. The screen stuttered, then stabilized.
A soft chime pinged through the pod.
[PASSIVE SCAN INITIATED – RANGE: 65m – MAPPING: SPARSE]
CONTACT DETECTED – MASS SIGNATURE: 3.2T
DISTANCE: 59 METERS
STATUS: DERELICT
DESIGNATION: UNKNOWN
POSSIBLE VESSEL FRAGMENT – STRUCTURAL SHADOW DETECTED
Kael's breath caught.
"Wait. A ship?"
The AI confirmed.
"Shape and density consistent with partial fuselage or detached vessel compartment. Insufficient data to classify further. Recommend: EVA inspection."
He looked at the viewport, gaze narrowing. The debris had seemed endless—drifting panels, shattered cargo, fuel tanks ruptured into empty shells. But this… this sounded different.
Something whole.
Something big.
"I don't suppose it's got a minibar," he muttered.
He checked suit integrity, resecured his tether line, and slung the Arcspanner across his back. It was heavy and old, but it might still be good for opening sealed panels. If not, it'd make a solid blunt instrument.
The pod vanished behind him as he drifted toward the marked point.
Every meter was a lifetime. The silence of space pressed against his helmet like weightless cotton. No sound but his breath. No movement but the slow, deliberate push of gloved hands guiding along a poly-tether. His own pulse became a thunderclap.
Then he saw it.
The object was definitely a vessel fragment—mid-sized, maybe part of a cargo ship or drop barge. Its hull was blackened by fire, one side sheared clean off, exposing jagged ribs of metal. But the other side was mostly intact. A service hatch remained closed near the base. Its paint was faded, but a flicker of green emergency light still glowed faintly around the edges.
Kael latched onto the hull and pulled himself to the hatch. The scanner in his suit chimed—low radiation. Not lethal.
He examined the panel. It wasn't a standard make, but the locking mechanism was familiar: dual-latch override, designed for emergency access.
He pulled the Arcspanner from his back, braced it against the panel, and twisted.
The latch creaked. Groaned.
Then gave way.
The hatch swung inward with a hiss of displaced gas.
Kael peered inside.
Dim emergency lights illuminated a narrow corridor, half-collapsed but still navigable. A pair of lockers lined one wall. One had burst open, its contents spilled across the floor—clothing, a broken helmet, scattered ration wrappers.
The other was intact.
He floated in, heart pounding, and wrenched the door open.
Inside:
A portable battery pack
A sealed water unit (90% full)
A micro-oxygen tank
A toolkit with advanced diagnostic nodes
And a hardcase marked: "CRYO MED-KIT – TYPE A"
Kael stared for a long moment.
Then laughed.
Not loud. Not manic. Just short, disbelieving joy.
"Thank you," he whispered to no one. "Whoever you were… thank you."
He loaded the supplies into his carry sack, double-checked the oxygen seals, and made his way back to the hatch. The glow of the pod was a distant pinprick now, a flicker of life amid the stars.
His arm burned from the effort of hauling the sack and guiding himself along the tether. Twice he spun out slightly and had to stabilize with sharp gasps.
But he made it back.
The airlock sealed behind him with a hiss.
Kael collapsed inside, laughing again—hoarse and breathless. The med-kit alone could buy him days, maybe longer. He didn't even know what was inside it yet. He didn't care.
He was alive. And better off than he had been this morning.
He unpacked the haul.
The water unit fed directly into the recycler, immediately stabilizing the contamination levels. The battery pack added six hours of usable power to the fabricator system—enough to maybe print a basic drone chassis, once he had parts. The oxygen tank—small, but clean—bought him another twenty hours.
And the med-kit?
He opened it carefully.
Inside, preserved in stasis gel, were five injections: one stim, two auto-healers, and a powerful anti-rad agent.
Gold.
He closed the case gently.
[RESOURCE STATUS: UPDATED]
SURVIVAL PROGNOSIS: STABLE FOR 96 HOURS AT CURRENT CONSUMPTION
OBJECTIVE SHIFT: ENABLE NEXT-LEVEL REPAIR SYSTEMS
Kael cracked his knuckles and leaned forward, eyes focused on the fabricator console.
"Next step," he murmured. "We don't just survive. We build."