Two weeks later.
The ship still held together, though every system hummed with the wear of years. When Jinyue initiated the remaining diagnostics, the console flickered a dim blue across the control bay, revealing a network of critical errors. Power distribution was unstable. Several life-support units had shut down completely. The central AI's core memory had degraded so badly that it could no longer run autonomous management beyond basic routines.
Cody moved beside him, the hiss of his servos filling the silence. He carried small instruments, tools, and data tablets in careful rotations, mindful of his uneven balance. The dented plating along his torso made every step cautious, but he kept moving, following a rhythm that mirrored the ship's mechanical heartbeat.
"The remaining modules are online," Cody reported, his voice carrying a rare note of excitement. "Atmospheric processors functional. Storage bays are operational. Greenhouse stabilisers at thirty-seven per cent efficiency."
Jinyue's eyes flicked up, cool and precise. "And the power cost?"
Cody hesitated. His lens flickered. "Current output cannot sustain extended use. Working time has been halved. At this rate, the ship functions for no more than one year. Core replacement required. Even with full repair, extraction and reconstruction exceed your available resources."
Jinyue nodded. The words meant little beyond the obvious: the ship was fragile. Every system beyond basic life support was a risk, every spark a potential catastrophe. He brushed a hand across the console, letting his fingers trace the dim lines of circuitry. The memory of Jin'ar surfaced, faint but insistent, guiding his motions as though he had always known the architecture.
Cody watched him, eyes bright. "Shall I power down the nonessential modules?"
Jinyue's gaze lingered on the flickering schematic. The knowledge of repair came to him with practised precision—wire mapping, structural integration, and recalibration of the fusion stabiliser—but he understood the truth buried beneath the data. The power core was beyond him, not beyond his intelligence, but beyond his reach. It required facilities, alloy replacements, and reactor materials that this planet could not provide.
"Yes. Minimal consumption."
They reduced everything to the barest functioning state. No unnecessary lighting. No extended life-support systems. The ship's internal temperature fell to near freezing. The cold bit into Jinyue's hands, thin and unaccustomed to exposure. His current body lacked the resistance of Female Zerg physiology; he could feel the deep ache of cold that mechanical heat vents could no longer ease. He wondered how his previous self survived without the ship. Maybe he was the soft one.
Cody noticed. The caretaker unit lingered near him more often, one flickering yellow eye following his every move. The other remained dark, permanently dimmed after the feline attack. His limp grew sharper with humidity, and his missing arm left him lopsided, yet he tried to hide it whenever Jinyue turned. When Jinyue repaired the fractured plating of Cody's abdomen, the caretaker had remained motionless the entire time, watching him with a quiet trust that hadn't existed before.
Cody's voice softened during maintenance reports, a strange blend of awe and concern. "You fixed the joint calibration better than factory alignment. How did you—"
"I remembered," Jinyue replied flatly. Even he wasn't sure which memory belonged to him. Jin'ar's life lingered behind his eyes like an afterimage, each recollection surfacing without intent. The fine motion of welding, the instinct to reroute power flow before a surge, the silent cataloguing of every vibration in the hull—none of this belonged to Lan Jinyue, the human.
Sometimes he caught himself thinking in Zerg languages. The syntax arrived like a ghost, clipped and military. His hand would adjust the ship's navigation matrix by instinct, then he would stop, take a measured breath, and wipe the command from memory. The name Jin'ar never surfaced in thought, but its presence was everywhere, woven into his habits.
During system checks, Jinyue and Cody activated what limited functions remained. The ship's observation system came online first, giving them a clearer scan of the region. Beneath the ridged mountain terrain stretched the cavern network his past self had once inhabited.
The greenhouse Cody suggested was impractical; energy costs exceeded the ship's reduced budget. The cavern offered natural insulation, steady temperature, and a large chamber for planting and long-term habitation. Cody was disappointed but didn't argue. He calculated soil filtration methods and began carrying salvaged equipment to the external elevator. His movements were slow, his limp sharper, yet something like excitement lingered in his posture.
Later, Jinyue tested his psychic control again. The faint hum of kinetic pressure filled the air. Loose fragments of a broken panel floated before him, rotating in slow alignment. Cody froze, his remaining eye widening. He remembered the first time Jinyue had tried this—a week earlier—when uncontrolled force bent a wrench in half and left Jinyue shaking, nose bleeding. Now, the exertion no longer crippled him, though the precision still demanded effort.
"Master, the strain indicators—"
"They're stable," Jinyue interrupted, eyes fixed on the fragments. His voice was calm, distant. He knew he should stop, but something older kept pushing the limits.
The power obeyed. Not fully, but enough to follow his will. The pieces settled into perfect alignment before he released them. Cody's worry deepened even as awe grew. He began monitoring Jinyue's neural vitals in secret, logging the faint changes in energy response.
Later, when the ship's internal temperature dropped again, Jinyue returned to the pilot seat, staring at his reflection in the dark screen. His features were unmistakably human, yet his eyes looked alien—focused, unblinking, too calm. His hand pressed against his temple. The faint static under his skin hummed again, preceding the psychic field. He didn't name it. He didn't want to. Acceptance came quietly, not as realisation but as habit.
Cody remembered a vehicle, sleek and low, stored near the old cargo bays. Jinyue hadn't noticed it before. It was designed to traverse rocky terrain and collect samples—almost the size of a jet ski, with enough space for a person.
"Why wasn't this mentioned?" Jinyue asked sharply, though controlled. He felt cheated.
Cody's lens flickered uneasily. "I did not wish to burden you while weak. You were recovering. The vehicle remained inoperative. Now… with your repair of my arm, it is feasible."
The knowledge of wasted time—the eight-hour treks for water and supplies—stung, but efficiency demanded solutions, not emotion. They scavenged materials together, Jinyue moving slowly at first, then with steadier steps as his body remembered the rhythm of effort. Cody carried most of the weight, dragging crates and containers with careful precision.
They mapped each component before reconstruction. Jinyue's psychic focus coaxed small alignments, adjusting screws with a touch too light for human fingers. Each twitch left a faint warmth on his skin, frost melting in precise patterns.
Cody noted with awe, "Your control is improving. Neural strain minimal."
"I am aware," Jinyue said, thoughts flickering elsewhere. Every exertion left faint echoes in his head—a pulse of Jin'ar's instincts, awareness of strength beyond the human frame.
The vehicle was rebuilt in five days. Jinyue adapted it to traverse the cavern, adjusting suspension and routing energy from the small generator to the planting tools. Cody instructed on operation, demonstrating controls with precision bordering on obsession.
Jinyue followed, absorbing each motion into muscle memory. Test drives were cautious, deliberate, and slower than he wanted, but he did not push. He was still recovering.
Once modifications were complete, they returned to the cavern. The feline was absent. Yet Jinyue kept his advanced bow slung across his back—a habit born from instinct and caution, a relic of war now blended with domestic purpose.
The cavern smelled faintly of damp earth and old stone, a perfect shelter for planting. Jinyue mapped the space quickly: light distribution, water flow, heat retention. He overlaid Cody's environmental readings with his own calculations, merging Dominion schematics with Earth-based engineering. Each row of crops followed logic and intuition in equal measure, a hybrid of minds—Jinyue and Jin'ar, coexisting, unconsciously integrated.
Cody watched, occasionally mimicking gestures or repeating phrases. Once, he called Jinyue "sir" instead of "master" and corrected himself, visibly distressed. Jinyue waved it off with a soft smirk, recognising the tiny humanising flaw without comment.
The greenhouse module, once Cody's insistence, was abandoned entirely. The energy cost exceeded the ship's capacity. The cavern, insulated naturally and close to water sources, offered long-term viability. Jinyue made a note quietly, detachment masking inward satisfaction. Decisions now followed clarity, not preference.
On the fourth day, a small piece of metal lifted without conscious will, hovering briefly before release. Frost melted in precise arcs around his fingertips. The strain that once caused headaches and nosebleeds had diminished. His control was improving. Cody logged the incident, silent worry undercutting fascination.
Jinyue rubbed his temple, a faint ache of effort whispering. His reflection in polished metal walls bore calmness that did not belong entirely to him. Jin'ar's presence—subtle, precise, unacknowledged—guided his movements. Integration was nearly seamless now; he did not think of it as another mind, only as efficiency made manifest.
The cavern waited. Tools lined up. Soil enriched. The first seeds for permanence were ready. The power core would not last indefinitely. The ship's hum grew steadier as Cody adjusted remaining circuits, conserving energy.
They began planting. Crates of seeds, trays of nutrient-rich soil, and irrigation modules were loaded into the vehicle. Each section of the cavern was mapped, measured, and logged. Jinyue directed placement with precision, letting telekinetic nudges shift tools and trays into exact positions. Soil compaction or adjustments followed with subtle force-field control.
Cody observed constantly, occasionally mimicking smaller adjustments. "You are… efficient," he said. "Human operators would require hours. Your speed exceeds projected efficiency."
Jinyue paused, glancing briefly at him. No pride—only calculation. Improvement and control mattered more than recognition. Still, the compliment hung, absorbed into rhythm.
By midday, the first rows of crops were laid, irrigation lines positioned, and heat vents calibrated to retain warmth. Jinyue traced each line, psychic influence ensuring alignment. Frost melted into tiny rivulets, the cavern itself responding subtly.
"Your control is… stabilising," Cody noted. "No headaches, no erratic field surges."
"Improvement requires practice, Cody," Jinyue said. Soil density, water flow, and spatial efficiency overlaid like a battlefield map in his mind. Planting became a calculation of vectors and balance—a merging of intuition and logic.
They worked through the afternoon. The vehicle, once cumbersome, had become an extension of his body. A flick of telekinetic energy corrected misalignments without a word.
As the final row was planted, Jinyue stood back, hands lightly on the vehicle's controls. The cavern smelled of earth and nutrient-rich water. The first wave of life for their new home had taken root. He exhaled slowly, habitual caution remaining. The advanced bow rested across his back, ready.
Cody observed the rows, noting growth potential and energy efficiency. "This… configuration maximises yield," he said. "Even with partial ship functionality, long-term sustainability is possible."
Jinyue's eyes swept the cavern. A faint pulse of energy traced across his body, Jin'ar's presence guiding yet subtle. Integration was nearly seamless.
He allowed himself one small satisfaction. They had begun permanence. Outside, the cold deepened, but inside the cavern, warmth and life coexisted, delicate but deliberate.
Jinyue realised he no longer intended to return. Dominion was distant, irrelevant. Here, in the intersection of machine, psychic force, and earth, he could carve a future of his own making.
Cody's voice, quiet but precise, broke the silence. "Shall we rest before continuing further expansion?"
Jinyue nodded once, almost imperceptibly. "Yes. Rest is efficiency too."
The vehicle hummed quietly behind him, frost curling away from his fingertips. The first act of their new life was complete. The next phase waited patiently, in the dim, steady light of the cavern.