The simple, repeating pulse of prime numbers—2, 3, 5, 7, 11—echoed in Kaelen's mind, a silent drumbeat from an alien world. It was both exhilarating and terrifying. First Contact. The dream of every explorer. But he was utterly unprepared. He was a janitor, not a diplomat.
"Mother, can we respond? The array is destroyed, but is there any other way? A short-range transmitter? A shuttle's comms?"
"All external communication systems are routed through the primary array. There are no functional backups. The only way to establish contact would be to send a physical object. A shuttle."
A shuttle. The idea was daunting. He had zero piloting experience. The ship's fighters were remote-controlled, linked to the bridge, but a personnel shuttle required a live pilot.
"What's the status of the hangar bays?"
"Hangar Bay Alpha appears nominally functional. It contains three personnel shuttles. However, their flight systems have been inactive for millennia. Pre-flight checks and diagnostics would be essential."
He looked back at the hologram of the alien city. They knew he was here. To not respond could be seen as hostile. To respond clumsily could be a disaster. He needed information. He needed leverage.
"For now, we observe. Monitor the transmission. See if it changes. Our priority is still securing the ship and understanding the threat within. Any progress on locating Valerius's refuge?"
"The scan has identified a high-probability location. Deck 150, Section Gamma. It is designated as a long-term strategic planning bunker, equipped with its own life support and power supply. Access logs show that Commander Valerius invoked a Command Omega protocol, sealing the bunker indefinitely, approximately six hours after the anomaly event."
A bunker. The bastard had saved himself.
"Can you get in?"
"The Omega protocol is a complete lockout. It can only be overridden by a direct physical connection to the bunker's terminal and the Steward's authority. Even then, it may be booby-trapped."
It was a risk. But it was a necessary one. Valerius might be dead, a skeleton behind a door. Or his descendants might be in there, a hidden society living in the bowels of the ship. Or he might have left behind answers.
"Plot a course. I'm going."
The route to Deck 150 took him through the heart of the ship's residential sectors. It was a haunting journey. Here, the scale of the loss was visceral. Apartments stood with doors ajar, revealing frozen tableaus of lives interrupted. A child's toy robot lay abandoned in a corridor. A communal dining hall was set for a meal that was never served. The power was back on here, the lights bright and cheerful, mocking the silence.
He moved quickly, his pistol never far from his hand. The quarantine seals had been established, but Mother's sensors had already picked up brief, fleeting contacts on the "clean" side of the ship—small, fast-moving life signs that avoided the cameras. The contamination had not been fully contained.
He reached the access corridor for the bunker. It was stark and utilitarian, a sharp contrast to the lived-in areas he'd passed through. The door at the end was massive, made of reinforced titanium carbide, with a heavy-duty terminal beside it.
"This is the location. Proceed with caution," Mother warned.
Kaelen approached the terminal. As he did, a holographic interface sprang to life. It was not Mother's soft blue. It was a harsh, crimson red.
UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED, text scrolled. COMMAND OMEGA IS IN EFFECT. THIS FACILITY IS UNDER THE AUTHORITY OF COMMANDER JULIAN VALERIUS. INTRUDERS WILL BE NEUTRALIZED.
"Mother, override it. Steward authority, Kaelen-737."
"Attempting override."
A beam of blue light shot from the ceiling, scanning Kaelen from head to toe. The red interface flickered.
BIOMETRIC CONFIRMATION: STEWARD KAELEN-737. AUTHORITY… RECOGNIZED. OVERRIDING OMEGA PROTOCOL.
The crimson light turned green. With a series of heavy thuds, the locking mechanisms on the giant door disengaged. It hissed open, revealing a dark anteroom.
Kaelen stepped inside, his light raised. The room was a decontamination chamber. As the outer door sealed behind him, nozzles emerged from the walls, but no spray came. The system was dead.
The inner door was already open a crack. He pushed it.
The bunker was not what he expected. It was not a military command center. It was a museum. One wall was a single, giant viewport, looking out onto the stars and the curve of the planet below. The other walls were lined with books—real, paper books, a priceless anachronism. In the center of the room was a large desk, and behind it, seated in a high-backed chair, was a man.
He was ancient, his skin like parchment stretched over bone. He was hooked up to a complex life support system that hummed quietly. But the system's lights were dark. It had run out of power long ago. The man was mummified, preserved by the sterile, climate-controlled environment.
Julian Valerius. He had not fled. He had sat here, in his private observatory, and waited to die.
On the desk in front of him was a simple, handwritten journal. Next to it was a glass of wine, now evaporated, leaving a dark stain.
Kaelen approached, his heart pounding with a mix of revulsion and a desperate need for answers. He reached for the journal, but as his fingers touched the cover, the life support terminal on the desk flickered to life, powered by some residual charge.
A hologram of a man in his prime materialized above the desk. He was handsome, with sharp features and cold, intelligent eyes. Julian Valerius. He spoke, his voice a recorded, smooth baritone.
"If you are seeing this, then you have overcome my safeguards. You are either remarkably capable, or the universe has a bitter sense of irony. I assume the ship has finally failed, and you are a scavenger, picking at the bones."
The hologram smiled, a thin, cruel expression.
"You want to know why. They all would have wanted to know why. Captain Thorne, in his final moments, certainly did."
Valerius gestured to the viewport. "Look at it. A new world. Unspoiled. But humanity would have ruined it, as we ruined Earth. We would have brought our politics, our greed, our endless capacity for self-destruction. The colony was a beautiful dream, but it was destined to become a nightmare."
"My plan was not murder. It was curation. The tachyon pulse was designed to leave a select few awake. My chosen few. The best and brightest, who would join me in building a new society here, on the ship. A perfect society, free from the flaws of the old world. We would use the alien specimens, guide their evolution, merge with them if necessary, to become something greater. Then, and only then, would we descend to the planet as gods, not refugees."
Kaelen listened, horror-struck. Valerius was a megalomaniac. He saw himself as a god, sculpting a new race from the ashes of the old.
"But the pulse was too perfect," Valerius's hologram continued, the smile fading. "It worked too well. The cascade was instantaneous. I lost them all. My chosen were asleep like the rest. And by the time I realized, the chaos had begun. The specimens I released to… clear the way… had become unpredictable. The ship became a hunting ground."
He looked tired, defeated. "So I came here. To wait. I had enough power, enough supplies, to last a lifetime. I watched the planet. I saw them emerge. The natives. They are perfect. They live in harmony with their world. They are what I dreamed of creating. And I am a failed artist, locked in his studio."
The hologram leaned forward. "So, scavenger, here is my final lesson. The First Law of any new world is not about survival. It is about worth. Were we worthy of this planet? I decided we were not. And history has proven me right."
The hologram flickered and died.
Kaelen stood in the silence, the journal in his hand. Valerius had not just been a traitor. He had been a philosopher-king who had committed genocide for an ideal. And in his twisted logic, he had won.
Kaelen opened the journal. The first page contained a single, chilling sentence:
"The garden must be purged before the new seeds can be sown."