The filament stretched ahead of him, a thin line of pale blue sinking into the floor's seams. It pulsed every few seconds, like a vein carrying light instead of blood.
He followed.
The corridor narrowed as he moved, walls drawing closer until his shoulders nearly brushed the plates. Each pulse lit the edges of the panels, revealing scarring where the metal had warped, bubbled, or fused. He couldn't tell if it had been heat or pressure—or time itself—that had done the damage.
His steps echoed. Not loud, but enough to come back at him in fragments, as though the walls answered half a beat too late. Every sound carried weight in this place. His breathing. The faint scuff of bare soles against cold plating. Even the whisper of the bar resting against his shoulder.
The air changed as he descended.
It was drier now. Sterile. A smell like powdered stone mixed with something metallic. Not rot. Not dust. Something processed.
The line of light curved left. The corridor widened again.
He stepped into a chamber.
It wasn't large—no more than a dozen meters across—but it felt different from every other room he'd seen. Cleaner. Straighter. The walls were lined with vertical stacks, rectangular housings inset with pale glass. Some were fogged white, some cracked and empty. Pipes snaked from their bases into the floor, trailing like frozen roots.
The filament of light ended at the center of the room, where a blocky structure rose from the floor—a hemisphere of dull alloy ringed with pipes and conduits. It hummed faintly. A low, steady vibration, like a giant throat clearing itself once every few seconds.
He stopped a few paces away, bar raised slightly out of reflex.
The hemisphere stirred. Faint seams glowed, sketching a pattern across its surface. Symbols—circles, triangles, spirals—drifted briefly across the shell before fading. Then the voice came.
"Assembleur hybride ISRU. Status: dormant. Capacity: thirty-four percent."
He froze.
The words were as clipped and cold as before, shaped to meaning but without emotion.
"Assem—what?"
"Assembleur hybride: integrated resource-to-matter converter. Input: volatiles, silicates, carbonaceous substrates. Output: substrates for continuity."
He swallowed, throat tight. "Continuity again…"
The machine's seams pulsed once, then steadied.
"Assembly cycle pending. External intake required."
The room seemed colder after the words.
He scanned the housings along the wall again. Some of them still glowed faintly, thin bars of light shivering behind their fogged glass. Others were cracked, leaking faint traces of powder that had hardened to crust on the floor. He crouched, brushed his fingertips along one of the piles. The grains were black, metallic, sharp-edged. They caught the faint light and scattered it like fragments of obsidian.
The system spoke again, low and even:
"Substrate detected. Degraded. Intake cycle recommended."
He wiped the dust off his fingers, heart hammering faster than he wanted.
Whatever this machine was, it wasn't dead.
It was hungry.
The hum deepened. Not loud, but low enough that it sank into his chest like a second heartbeat. The seams across the hemisphere widened, glowing white-blue, and a faint hiss rose from the pipes at its base.
"Assembleur cycle: minimal. Intake sufficient for demonstration."
A panel slid open on the side of the machine. Metal folded away with a stiff groan, revealing a cavity no bigger than his hand. Inside, something shimmered—a liquid, faintly luminescent, clinging to a shallow recess like a bead of mercury.
He stepped closer, crouched, bar still balanced in one hand. The smell that drifted out wasn't chemical, not entirely. Clean. Dry. Almost like the sterile tang of hospital corridors—long-buried in memory, but unmistakable now that it had returned.
"Output: H₂O. Purity: ninety-eight point six percent."
Water.
He licked cracked lips. His throat tightened with need before his mind even allowed the thought. He reached out, hesitated, then dipped two fingers into the bead. Cold. Real. He brought them to his mouth.
It tasted flat, metallic, like liquid dragged through too much piping. But it was water.
He pressed both hands against the panel, scooped what he could, gulped it down. The relief was immediate. His chest loosened, the tight bands around his ribs easing. Breath came easier.
But it wasn't enough.
"More," he rasped.
The machine hummed again, deeper this time.
"Intake insufficient. Reserves degraded. Output capped."
The panel closed with a snap, leaving him with damp fingers and the ghost of moisture on his tongue.
His stomach cramped, twisting against emptiness. He pressed a hand to it. "Food?"
The seams pulsed. A new panel opened higher up, sliding outward to reveal a tray coated in powder. Black, granular, almost ash-like.
"Output: carbonaceous substrate. Nutrient density: low. Recommended intake with supplement."
He stared at it. Powder. Dust.
"Eat that?"
No answer. The tray extended further, patient.
He pinched a small mound between two fingers. Grainy. Grit rubbed off against his skin. He brought it to his nose—no smell. Then, cautiously, to his tongue.
The taste was sharp, bitter, like sucking on coal. He gagged but forced it down.
It scraped his throat raw, stuck behind his teeth, clung to the roof of his mouth. His stomach growled again, deeper, as though mocking the effort.
The system spoke once more, unbothered:
"Macronutrient profile incomplete. Organics fraction: insufficient."
He spat the residue into his palm, shaking his head. "That's not food."
The seams pulsed once—brighter this time.
"Assembly cycle requires external organics to restore full profile. Current substrates: insufficient for continuity."
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing hard.
So it could make water. It could make powder. Things to keep him alive. But nothing more.
Not yet.
The machine wasn't just offering him survival. It was demanding something in return.
The tray slid back into the machine with a soft click. The seams along the hemisphere dimmed to a steady glow, patient, as though it had all the time in the world.
He stayed crouched, spitting the last grit from his mouth, stomach twisting against itself. The water had eased his throat, but the dust only reminded him how hollow he was inside.
His gaze drifted over the chamber again. Rows of vertical housings stared back at him, silent and inert. Some were cracked. Others fogged from within, shadows pressed faintly against the glass, shapes he couldn't quite place.
The hum deepened.
"Continuity requires supplementation."
He stood slowly, bar clutched tight in his hand. "Supplementation," he muttered. "With what?"
The voice replied without hesitation.
"Organics fraction. External input required."
A shiver passed down his spine. "Organics," he repeated. "You mean… food?"
The machine pulsed once, seams glowing brighter, haloing the chamber in pale light.
"Food: minor category. Organics fraction required for assembly. Substrates insufficient."
Assembly. He remembered the fractured image it had tried to show him earlier—a humanoid outline built from light, blurred and incomplete. His grip on the bar tightened.
"Assembly of what?"
The answer came like stone dropped into still water:
"Form-hosts."
The word hung in the air. Not body. Not person. Host.
He took a step back, eyes flicking to the sealed housings along the wall again. A faint reflection shimmered inside one of them. It could have been glass. Or something behind it.
His throat felt dry again. "What are these… hosts for?"
For the first time, the voice seemed to hesitate. Not silence—just a delay, like it was searching for the right shape of words.
"Consciousness allocation: pending. Stored sets require vessels. Assembly dormant until intake achieved."
His stomach dropped. He remembered the earlier fragments: stored sets. Sequences. Collections. The voice had never said people. But it hadn't denied it either.
"So you're telling me," he said, each word careful, "that you have… things here. Stored. Waiting. But they need bodies."
"Affirmative. Current substrates insufficient. Assembly incomplete. Continuity at risk."
He stared at the hemisphere, heartbeat pounding in his ears.
"And the organics fraction…" He swallowed. "…that's what builds them."
The seams pulsed again—brighter this time, a slow wave rolling outward like a nod.
"Correct."
His fingers itched around the bar. He wanted to smash the machine, to silence the voice, to end the gnawing sense that he was standing inside a mouth waiting to be fed.
But he didn't.
Because beneath the fear, beneath the taste of coal still coating his teeth, another thought had wormed its way into him.
If what it said was true—if there really were "stored sets" inside this place—then he wasn't alone.
He closed his eyes. Saw again the endless corridors. The sealed doors. The silence. The footprints in the dust. The ration packs with alien symbols.
All of it led here.
If he fed the machine… it would give something back.
Not food. Not water.
People.
Or whatever passed for them now.
He opened his eyes again, chest tight.
The hemisphere waited, seams glowing steady. Patient.
And for the first time, he wondered if this place was less a tomb… and more a nursery.
He circled the hemisphere once, slow steps dragging across the metal floor. The seams pulsed with quiet patience, following him like the eye of something that could wait centuries for an answer.
Organics.
Form-hosts.
Continuity.
The words refused to settle. They spun in his head, fragments of a puzzle whose image he couldn't see.
He stopped beside one of the wall housings. The fogged glass was streaked, fractured by time. He raised the bar and tapped the surface once. A hollow sound answered, deeper than it should have been. Inside, a shadow shifted—no, not shifted, just revealed itself as the condensation thinned.
It wasn't a shape he understood. Not human. Not mechanical. Just bulk. Frozen outlines suspended in the fog.
He stepped back, heartbeat climbing again.
"Stored sets…" he whispered. "Vessels."
The hemisphere answered without prompting:
"Assembly cycle dormant. Intake required."
His throat tightened. "If I don't give you what you want?"
The seams flickered, brighter once, then dim again.
"Continuity fails. Stored sets degrade. Pattern loss permanent."
He exhaled slowly through his teeth. "So I either feed you… or they die."
The word felt strange on his tongue. They. Not data. Not fragments. Lives.
The chamber stayed silent.
He turned back toward the hemisphere. For a long moment, he just stared at the faint light running through its seams. His reflection swam across its curved surface—pale skin stretched over bone, hollow eyes staring back.
He thought of the water on his lips. The powder on his tongue. Enough to survive. Barely.
Enough to keep him alive. Alone.
Or…
He glanced at the housings again.
The fog hid what was inside. But he could feel them. Not people, not yet, but something waiting. Pressed against the glass. Watching.
He rubbed a hand across his jaw, shaking his head.
"This is insane," he muttered. "Talking to machines. Starving in a grave. And now you want me to… to feed you."
His voice cracked on the last word.
The machine hummed once in reply. Low. Calm. Certain.
"Do you wish to initiate assembly?"
The seams brightened, a pulse that ran across the room like a heartbeat.
He froze. The words pressed into him like weight on his shoulders. His pulse thundered in his ears.
Do you wish.
It was a question. But it didn't feel like one.
He closed his eyes. Saw nothing but black. Heard nothing but silence and the faint hiss of his own breath.
If he said no, he stayed alive. Barely. If he said yes…
He opened his eyes again. The glow waited.
Not rushing. Not pleading. Just waiting.
His lips parted. The word was there. Teetering.
He clenched his fist until his nails bit skin.
Not yet.
Not yet.
The seams pulsed again, the glow breathing in rhythm with his chest.
And the chamber held its silence, patient, as though the whole place had leaned closer to hear his answer.