The ship had grown quieter since the attack. The cold outside had thickened until the air itself looked pale. Frost clung to the edges of the viewport like fine glasswork, catching light from the ship's dim interior glow. For two weeks, Jinyue had not stepped beyond his bed. His body was still learning the rhythm of life again. Each morning began with the same ache in his joints, the same slow strength returning to his limbs.
The cold bit deeper now. Even with the ship's heating system running at full, he felt it in his bones. It was different from pain, more like the body's complaint at being built for another world. He sat upright, spine pressed against the metal wall, and stared at the pale mist that hung beyond the glass. The cold season had come early.
Cody moved across the room in deliberate motions. His single working arm carried a tray that hissed faintly where coolant mist touched air. He placed it near the bedside and stepped back with mechanical precision. His right leg made a soft metal creak. One of his optic lenses flickered. The other remained dark.
He placed the tray on the side table and announced, almost cheerfully, "Temperature stable at twenty-seven degrees. No further internal bleeding. Healing progress: satisfactory."
The faint buzz in his voice betrayed enthusiasm. Jinyue caught it, lips curling slightly. "That's good."
He drank the nutrient solution, slow and careful, while Cody recorded the readings. The fluid was tasteless, grey, and efficient. He had never hated something as much as he hated that damned liquid. Too bad Cody couldn't cook.
For the first days, he had tried to rest as Cody ordered. He lasted two before his mind rebelled. There was no silence in him. Especially due to the dual memories. He felt as if he was going crazy with the sudden and random influx of information memories and feelings.
Even when his body failed, thought remained sharp, cutting through pain like glass. He asked for materials. Cody brought them; drawing supplies and notebooks, thin alloy sheets, pieces of unused plating, and a stylus tool meant for repairs. Jinyue never asked where he found them, and Cody never said.
The first sketches were shaky. His fingers trembled, and the lines warped. But the mind behind them was precise. He drew structures, heating coils, simple robots for home use. The design language of a man who once ran factories and commanded engineers returned through his fingertips. He had built appliance lines in his past life, entire systems that served the comfort of millions.
Those memories sat beside newer ones, memories that were not his. Jin'ar's tactical instincts whispered in between thoughts—measure the angles, assess the field, calculate threat vectors even in peace. The mix of minds showed itself in small ways. When he mapped irrigation layouts, his lines looked like battle formations. When he drew a cooking unit, he added extra plating around the heating chamber.
Cody observed without comment, only adjusting the lights to match Jinyue's focus levels. His internal clock had begun to model Jinyue's attention cycles. When the human worked, Cody dimmed his voice output and reduced ambient noise. When he slept, Cody moved with near-silent precision.
By the fifth day, Jinyue could lift himself without dizziness. He still got tired quickly, but his gaze had regained that calm clarity Cody associated with command. He had been a patient only in name. Inside, he was already reorganising.
"You said the cold season lasts half a year," Jinyue said one morning as he sat sketching. "Explain the crop cycle again."
Cody's lenses brightened. He enjoyed being asked. "Yes. Soil composition maintains higher nutrient density during low temperatures. Photosynthetic activity is slower but more efficient. Crops require between two and four months to reach full growth. Optimal planting time falls within the current month."
"And if we wait three weeks from now?"
"Yield efficiency decreases by approximately thirty per cent." Cody answered promptly, his voice rising in pitch as if alarmed by the math itself.
Jinyue exhaled through his nose, the breath faintly visible. "Then I need to be walking before the end of the second week."
Cody tilted his head. "Recovery predictions suggest partial mobility within that window if you refrain from further strain."
"I'm not planning to run."
"You said that last time."
A faint smile touched Jinyue's mouth. "Did I?"
"Yes. Before you collapsed."
Cody's tone carried no accusation, only record. Still, it made Jinyue look away. He traced a circle on the alloy sheet, mapping soil layouts, spacing, and irrigation lines. He was no farmer, but systems were systems. Growth followed logic like profit margins.
He paused and glanced at Cody again. His new friend cum caretaker's posture looked almost rigid, one leg locked at an unnatural angle to balance the limp. His chest plating bore three deep dents. A shallow scratch curved across the left side of his face, where the feline's claws had caught him. Jinyue had noticed it before, but now the damage seemed worse.
"Your left side," he said. "Does it affect your function?"
"Minimal," Cody answered too quickly..
"That is not true."
Cody hesitated. "Mobility reduced by twelve percent. Structural integrity compromised in two areas. Secondary processor occasionally skips frames. Audio distortion at high volume."
"You are falling apart."
"Not entirely."
"Your arm?" Jinyue asked.
Cody looked at the broken limb. The forearm ended at the elbow joint. Wires hung neatly coiled inside a maintenance seal. "Missing. I have spare parts in storage. I can attach replacements, but precision exceeds my reach with one arm."
Jinyue leaned back, the wheels turning in his mind. "Show me the manual."
Cody's lens dimmed slightly. "My construction data is proprietary."
"Do you care?"
Silence stretched. Cody processed the question longer than usual. "No," he said finally. "But you are not certified for mechanical maintenance."
"I designed robots long before your factory ever opened."
He was thrown a rather sceptical look, which made him quickly remember his situation with an amused snort. Such an expressive machine.
"Remember, my father taught me about the systems when I was young,"
Cody seemed even less convinced, considering how he'd lost most of his memories once he made it to the ship and only just remembered them recently.
"I have a good memory, I promise, last time was a fluke, and I can make a robot from scratch too," He added for good measure.
"A long pause. Then, "I would like to see your production record," Cody said with polite yet blatant scepticism.
"I'll draw you one."
"Memory accuracy questionable."
Jinyue chuckled. "You sound like my auditors."
Still, Cody hesitated before sending the access codes. "I will provide the manual," he said finally, "under supervision."
"Of course."
Rows of specifications filled the display. Material composites, energy circuits, and code structure. Jinyue's eyes scanned them as if reading an old language.
He spent the next days studying.
Each morning began with the quiet whir of Cody's servos and the faint tremor of Jinyue's hands as he took the stylus. He divided his time between reviewing Cody's schematics and listening to lessons. Cody had taken it upon himself to teach him modern mechanics.
"Processing units now rely on neural mimicry," Cody explained one evening. "We call it sympathetic logic. It allows adaptive reasoning based on emotional projection."
"Emotional projection," Jinyue repeated. "You mean self-modifying empathy loops."
"Yes. My series was the first civilian model to integrate it."
"You were designed for households right?"
"Caretaker units. Medical assistance, domestic management, child supervision."
Jinyue looked at the damaged arm again. "Strange choice for a machine capable of fear."
"I was not designed to feel fear," Cody said with a huff of dissatisfaction. "But preservation protocol reads similarly."
That night, as the ship hummed with the slow rhythm of its reactors, Jinyue studied Cody's internal map until his eyes burned. He noted every line, every node. He also noted the small differences between the code as written and Cody's behaviour. Lines of logic were adapted in ways that were not in the manual. It reminded him of people who outgrew their own instructions.
By the end of the first week, his recovery had reached measurable progress. He could walk from the bed to the terminal, his steps steady though slow. Cody followed each movement with silent precision, ready to intervene but never speaking unless asked.
"You keep watching me," Jinyue said once without turning.
"I am programmed to monitor patient recovery."
"Do you enjoy it?"
Cody paused. "I do not experience enjoyment."
"You're lying."
Cody tilted his head. "Partial truth. I derive stability from pattern recognition. Watching you fulfils that function."
Jinyue laughed quietly. It was a soft sound, almost surprised. "That is close enough to enjoyment."
By the second week, he was ready to test what he had learned. He requested access to the maintenance tools. Cody refused twice before agreeing.
"I will supervise," Cody said.
"Of course."
They set up in the ship's secondary compartment. The space smelled faintly of ozone and coolant. Cody placed the spare arm parts on the table, their surfaces shining faintly in the dim light. His movements were careful. He was both subject and observer now.
Jinyue sat opposite him, examining the damaged joint. The metal was rough at the break, torn through by the feline's strike. He traced the edges with his fingers, feeling where the structure bent. Jin'ar's memories flickered at the edge of his mind—lessons of weapon balance, pressure, and precision of force. Those instincts merged with the engineer's understanding of systems. He saw the arm not as damaged but as a problem to be solved.
"Hand me the tools."
Cody passed them wordlessly. His single functioning lens glowed brighter, tracking every motion.
Jinyue rolled his sleeves up. "Let's start with the arm."
Cody seated himself on a crate, posture almost nervous. His lens flickered rapidly as he ran self-diagnostics. "I predict a thirty-seven percent failure rate," he said, voice brisk but oddly high-pitched.
"Then you'd better hope I outperform your predictions."
He began the repair, slow and methodical. He reattached the wiring, fused the connectors, and recalibrated the servos. Cody's optic tracked every movement with childlike fascination. Occasionally, he blurted out, "That's not standard protocol—oh!—but efficient," or "Maybe you could…" "I know a better way," or the most common accusation, "You are… You are improvising!"
"I am optimising," Jinyue corrected without looking up.
Cody's internal log filled with dozens of new entries: Human displays unexpected precision. Efficiency exceeds factory metrics. Observation generates… interest.
The moment Cody planned to speak up next, Jinyue got fed up.
"Wha.."
"Cody!"
"Yes, Master Jinyue,"
"Shut up!"
That did the trick.
Jinyue steadied his breathing and began the repair. He dismantled the damaged casing, realigned the primary cable, and reconnected the sensory filaments. His movements were slow but precise. There was a stillness to him, the same focus he once used to negotiate billion-credit deals.
Cody spoke only once during the rest of the process. "Your pulse rate is elevated."
"It means I'm alive."
"Does it also mean nervousness?"
"It means concentration."
The repair took hours. When Jinyue paused, Cody adjusted the light angles and extended his working arm to assist with minor holds. For each instruction, Cody responded immediately. The rhythm between them became smooth, almost conversational without words.
By the end of the second hour, the new arm was attached. Jinyue tightened the last bolt and sat back. "Try moving it."
Cody flexed the fingers, testing one joint, then another. The motion flowed smooth and steady. The servo whir softened into a near-human rhythm.
"Permission to speak freely," Cody said.
"Since when did you need that?"
Perhaps he was about to say something offensive? Jinyue thought. Then again, when had he ever cared? Who knew recalibration and learning emotions made him polite?
Cody seemed to have no intention of talking after asking and Jinyue got curious. Thus, he said with a raised and intrigued eyebrow, "Granted,"
"I had predicted failure in this test."
"You were wrong." He answered with a smug feeling covering his chest.
"I acknowledge the error."
"Do not sound so disappointed."
"I am not. I am recalibrating emotional mapping. The variable matches excitement." He was, in fact, disappointed, but why would a robot confess anyway?
"Full mobility restored," Cody continued, now completely unrestrained and forgetful of previous instructions and chivalry, his voice rising with unmasked joy. "Feedback delay zero point two seconds. Perfect! It works!"
He lifted the arm and spun once in place, almost giddy. Jinyue caught himself smirking. "Careful. You'll dent yourself again."
"I will not!" Cody extended both arms proudly. "Balance restored. Efficiency increase confirmed. Trust level—ninety-three percent!"
"Only ninety-three?"
"I retain margin for uncertainty."
Jinyue leaned back, satisfied. "Reasonable."
Cody grew still, then said, almost shyly, "You fixed me."
"Yes," Jinyue said simply.
Cody flexed the arm again. The metal gleamed under the ship's cold light. He lifted a small tool from the table and handed it to Jinyue. The motion was smooth, almost graceful.
"Repair successful," Cody said. "Thank you."
Jinyue's eyes met his. There was no need for reply. He had done what logic required, nothing more. Yet something about the act had shifted the air in the room. Cody's systems recorded the change but could not explain it. Jinyue felt it too—a sense of quiet balance restored, a piece of order returning to a world that had lost shape.
He caught his reflection in the viewport. He felt alarmed at how easily and naturally his new look felt; his old face was slowly starting to feel like a distant memory.
Jin'ar's calm expression had started to settle over him when he wasn't paying attention. The same sharp control, the same predator's stillness in the eyes. He'd begun standing differently, weight balanced and measured. His human habits of pacing or tapping fingers had gone quiet, replaced by the cold patience of a survivor.
Cody noticed the shift but said nothing. Machines didn't question the subtleties of posture or silence. But he began adjusting the environmental regulators one degree higher each cycle, as though trying to coax warmth back into the air by sheer persistence.
He looked back at the screen filled with blueprints. The next project waited, the next idea already forming. But for the first time since he woke, he allowed himself to stop.
Cody stood beside him, newly whole, silent but present. The ship hummed around them, steady and warm despite the cold pressing against the hull. Outside, the pale light stretched across the frost.