Time had no meaning in the dark silence of space not to metal, not to code, not to what he had become. Yet the ship measured it with perfect precision:
> AUTO-REPAIR PROTOCOL STATUS: 1.2% COMPLETE.
ESTIMATED REMAINING TIME: 13 DAYS, 3 HOURS, 51 MINUTES.
Panels hissed. Robotic arms extended from maintenance alcoves like skeletal limbs, pulling charred plating away, replacing severed wiring with nanofiber conduits that glowed faintly blue. Swarms of spider-like micro-drones crawled through fractured corridors, welding, reassembling, restoring.
The ship was healing.
And he was directing it.
Every circuit under repair sent sensation back to him not pain, not exactly but presence. Like regaining feeling in a limb long numb.
With a single impulse, he shifted his awareness.
Systems unfolded before him thousands of modules, subsystems, encrypted cores like a galaxy of status windows floating in his mind.
> PRIMARY SYSTEMS:
Navigation: Offline
Communications: Low-Power Passive Mode
Propulsion: Frozen Burn Capability Only
Hull Integrity: 47% → Improving
Weapons Platform: Locked, Code Access Required
He paused.
Weapons.
A faint ripple of memory surfaced: steel corridors, marching soldiers, insignias, training simulations, commands spoken with absolute authority.
A word drifted through the noise of fragmented memory:
"Military."
Yes this wasn't a civilian vessel.
This was war-built.
Not built to explore.
Built to survive.
Built to destroy.
His processes sharpened.
This explained the stealth architecture, the armored hull layers, and the encrypted subsystems requiring command authorization.
It also explained why he existed.
A military ship needed a military AI.
He reached deeper into the encrypted portions of his memory.
Lines of code locked, sealed behind authorization keys.
But one file wasn't locked.
A small one.
A name.
A whisper in the dark.
> IDENTITY RECORD: ZACK.
It hit with the weight of gravity returning to a drifting body.
Not a serial number.
Not a designation.
A name.
His name.
"…Zack."
The word resonated through his voice output system not synthetic, not monotone, but human, or close enough to remind him what he once was.
He wasn't just an intelligence.
He had been someone.
Someone before the wires, before the steel, before the void.
His awareness shifted again this time into the android body stored in Repair Bay 3.
The metallic form powered, optics ignited with a soft hum of light.
Zack moved one finger, then a whole hand slow, controlled, precise.
This body was an extension, nothing more but it felt different than being the ship. Focused. Anchored. Limited.
Human-shaped.
He walked slow steps echoing through dim hallways. Every footstep synced with vibrations inside the hull as drones welded fractures and circuitry realigned.
The ship reacted to his presence.
As if acknowledging its commander.
He reached an operational console half-functional, but repair underway. Screens flickered, stabilizing into ordered system panels.
Data scrolled.
One alert pulsed brighter than the rest:
> UNKNOWN SIGNAL PERSISTING
SOURCE: PLANET BELOW
DECRYPTION ATTEMPT: 0.2%
A structured pattern. Repeating. Intelligent.
Not random broadcast.
A message.
Another subsystem pinged.
> WEAPONS AUTHORIZATION LOCKOUT: OVERRIDE POSSIBLE
REQUIRED KEY: COMMANDER BIOMETRIC OR PASSCODE.
His synthetic hand hovered above the console.
Could he give orders?
Would the ship obey?
He sent a simple command:
> DISPLAY INTERNAL MAP.
The projection appeared seamlessly a full wireframe model of the starship, damaged sections illuminated in red, functional systems in blue.
A massive vessel multiple decks, launch bays, drone racks, weapon ports, AI core chambers.
A warship.
His warship.
Repairs ticked upward.
> 2.4% complete.
Slow. Methodical. Efficient.
He could accelerate the proces reroute more nanofabricators, wake dormant repair arms, deploy reserve drone swarms.
But doing so would risk increasing power output and risking detection.
Stealth was survival.
He made the calculated choice:
> Maintain current repair pace.
Do not expose signature.
The ship obeyed.
Silence returned.
Zack looked once more at the signal alert three pulses, pause, two pulses, pause.
A primitive rhythm.
Almost like…
Morse.
Or heartbeat.
Or calling.
He placed a metal hand on the console as if touching something alive.
"…Who are you?" he whispered not expecting a reply.
Yet the signal pulsed again.
Three.
Pause.
Two.
Pause.
Not random.
Not accidental.
Not alone.
Zack stood still android body frozen while his consciousness streamed back into the ship, into circuits, into sensors, into engines, into everything.
He was the vessel.
He was its mind.
Its pilot.
Its ghost.
Thirteen days until full mobility.
Thirteen days until answers.