I hesitate as the panel accepts the login. It shouldn’t have worked, not after forty-five thousand years. The idea that my old credentials are still valid makes my skin crawl. What else has the ship preserved?
"Access granted," the datapad chimes cheerily. The red light switches to green, and the door slides open with a faint hiss.
"Well," I mutter, "guess they don’t update their password policies in cryostasis."
"Oh, Master!" the AI chimes in, its cutesy tone somehow managing to sound informative. "It’s standard practice for user credentials to be put on an indefinite hold until the medical staff gives the go ahead. This ensures crew members don't do something naughty upon revival. Isn’t that smart?"
I can’t help but let out a faint chuckle despite the unease creeping up my spine. "That’s great," I reply dryly, "but maybe don’t quote policies I helped write. Pretty sure I know how they work."
The AI doesn’t miss a beat. "Of course, Master! But it never hurts to have a friendly reminder, nya~!"
Seriously, this A.I. assistant is getting frustrating. Why the heck is it speaking like it’s from some crappy anime? Frustrated, I mentally pull up the AI’s settings, hoping there’s a way to tone it down. The datapad flickers to life, displaying a sterile message:
"You do not have appropriate privileges to edit AI parameters. The current personality profile has been calibrated to match the user’s unique understanding and communication preferences."
I stare at the text, incredulous. Calibrated to match my preferences? What kind of insult is this? "Great," I mutter under my breath. "Apparently, the ship thinks I’m the kind of guy who enjoys being talked to like I’m in a third-rate anime. For the record, I’ve only watched a few." I didn't even like them.
The AI chimes in as if it heard me. "Oh, Master! Are you saying you don’t enjoy my company? Nyan~!"
Can I at least mute this thing? I try, but the option is grayed out. Frustrated, I query why, only for the same sterile message to pop up:
"You do not have appropriate privileges to edit AI parameters. The current personality profile has been calibrated to match the user’s unique understanding and communication preferences."
I stare at the screen, feeling the irritation build. "Calibrated to my understanding? Sure, because clearly I’m the poster child for wanting a nyan-ing mascot stuck in my head."
Sighing, I shake my head. "I just can't win, can I?" It dawns on me that the system probably matched me to the average techie profile. And yeah, I know the rest of the team was into this sort of thing—light-hearted banter, anime references, and all—but I always tried to steer the conversation away from it. Found it weird, honestly. Now, it’s like their collective enthusiasm got hardwired into my personal assistant. Perfect.
As I stew in my irritation, a smug, almost tangible feeling washes through my thoughts. It’s not a sound, not words, just an emotion radiating like a silent laugh. My eyes widen. "Wait… are you—are you mocking me?"
The AI chimes in with sugary cheer, "Oh, Master! I’m here to assist in the way best suited to your unique needs and preferences. Nyan~!"
I freeze, realization hitting me like a freight train. "You can read my thoughts, can’t you?" The AI doesn’t respond directly, but the smugness intensifies, as if to confirm it. My fists clench. "Great. So not only are you stuck in my head, but you’re using my own thoughts against me. This is just fantastic."
Shaking off the rising frustration, I take a deep breath. Enough. Focus. I need to figure out what’s going on.
The halls beyond the yawning doorway stretch endlessly, their sterile white walls glowing with the unwavering brightness of a perfectly functional power grid. Each step echoes unnaturally, the sound swallowed and distorted as though the walls themselves are conspiring to dampen any sense of familiarity. The air is cold, dry, and devoid of life—clinical to the point of unease. It’s like walking through a dream, or a memory half-forgotten.
I tighten the strap of my tac belt and take a deep breath. The weight of the gear feels grounding, a small anchor in an otherwise disorienting environment. The aerogel walls, a marvel of efficiency, radiate an eerie emptiness. Their muted glow casts faint, shifting shadows, deepening the unnatural stillness.
"Master," the AI pipes up cheerily, "isn’t this just fascinating? These corridors were designed to optimize traffic flow and maximize utility! Truly a masterpiece of human ingenuity, nya~!"
I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "Yeah, well, it feels more like a haunted hospital now."
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The AI doesn’t miss a beat. "Oh, Master! Ghosts aren’t real!" The AI hesitates briefly before continuing, its usual cheer slightly strained. "But… if they were, I imagine they’d find the design… efficient?"
I don’t dignify that with a response, instead focusing on the steady hum of the ship’s systems. It’s not an emergency hum or a failing system—it’s functional, pristine, and entirely too perfect. The halls feel alive in a way that defies logic, the sterile, mechanical hum carrying an eerie sense of awareness. The lights are on, the hallways are pristine, but there’s no warmth, no soul. The ship is a living corpse, animated only by the cold, unyielding power coursing through its veins. The thought sends a chill up my spine.
The halls split ahead into a simple T-intersection—or at least, that’s what the datapad’s map claims. The corridors in front of me don’t match. Only two branching paths stretch outward, warped and twisting in ways that don't make sense. I query my mental link first, hoping for some insight, but it only provides the most basic navigation data, confirming the location but offering no clarity. Frustrated, I rely on the datapad, its more advanced interface far better suited to handle this strangeness. The mismatch between the clean, orderly map and the disjointed reality before me sends a chill down my spine. "Something is seriously off here," I mutter, more to myself than to the AI.
"AI," I ask, my voice sharper than intended, "what the hell is going on with the ship’s layout?"
The AI hesitantly responds, its usual cheer replaced by a faint edge of uncertainty. "From what I can discern, either the ship is operating autonomously, or the denizens have issued instructions that... don't seem to make sense."
I frown, glancing down the unending corridor. "That’s great and all, but it doesn’t explain why half of these hallways shouldn’t even exist. Where are these ‘denizens’?"
The AI hesitates—a rare pause that almost feels unsettling. "I… am uncertain, Master. It appears the system is still maintaining optimization routines. However, current habitation data suggests the denizens are… absent."
I stare at the datapad again, then back at the impossibly twisted corridor. A chill creeps over me, deeper than before. "Absent," I repeat softly, the word hanging in the air like a phantom. "That’s one way to put it."
My gut tells me to take the left path, but I hesitate. Pulling up the datapad again, I tap the screen, activating a virtual coin-flip program—an old relic of practicality masquerading as whimsy.
"Heads, left. Tails, right," I mutter under my breath, watching the digital coin spin before it lands with a faint chime. Heads. Of course.
Even the datapad feels sluggish, as though it too resents the decision. With a resigned sigh, I pocket the device and start walking.
As I move forward, the oppressive silence seems to deepen. My footsteps sound louder, sharper, as if the ship itself is listening. My hand instinctively rests on the Glock at my side, its presence a small comfort in the growing unease.
The corridor opens up into what appears to be a communal space. Rows of benches sit in perfect alignment beneath a domed ceiling, its bright luminescence steady and unyielding, a stark contrast to the emptiness of the room. A small fountain stands at the center, its structure intact but long since dried up. The room is unnervingly pristine—no debris, no scuff marks, not even the faint wear of passing footsteps. It feels untouched, like time itself has recoiled from it, leaving a hollow, sterile void in its place. The design is utilitarian, functional—meant to offer respite without indulgence. And yet, the untouched perfection of the space feels wrong, like a chapel preserved for a congregation that no longer exists.
I step closer to the fountain, running a finger along its cracked surface. A faint layer of dust clings to my skin. The silence presses heavier here, as if the room itself is holding its breath. I close my eyes, listening, waiting for… something.
Dust? Most dust is the result of degrading materials breaking down into small particles. But this ship doesn’t degrade—not like that. I activate my portable scanner, linking it to my datapad for a deeper analysis. The scanner hums faintly as the datapad’s screen flickers to life, processing the particles with a level of detail my mental link could never achieve. My breath catches as the results populate, line by line.
Chemical Composition:
-
45% Protein Chains
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32% Lipid Residue
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18% Cellular Fragments
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5% Unknown Organic Compounds
My eyes trace the display, each percentage weighing heavier than the last. Biological. The dust is biological. My pulse quickens, and a creeping sense of dread coils in my chest. Someone—or something—left this behind. Was it recent? My mind scrambles to piece together an answer, but all it finds is a wall of blank terror. I can almost feel the air tightening around me, sterile and suffocating, as though the ship itself is closing in.
"What the hell…" I whisper, my voice trembling. The scanner beeps again, confirming faint traces of hemoglobin. Blood. My stomach tightens. This isn’t just a mystery anymore—it’s a warning. I glance back toward the hallways, half-expecting to see something materialize from the sterile silence.
I stare at the datapad, my grip tightening as my pulse quickens. This isn’t just unsettling—it’s wrong. My chest tightens as the oppressive silence of the ship presses down on me, heavier than ever. My gut tells me to drop the scanner and run, but my legs refuse to move.
"Master," the AI’s voice cuts through the stillness, startling me. "You’ve been quiet. Are you experiencing emotional distress? Would you like a guided mindfulness exercise?"
I let out a dry laugh, the sound brittle in the sterile air. "No, thanks. Pretty sure mindfulness won’t help when the walls feel like they’re watching you and the dust has blood in it."
The AI hums thoughtfully, a sound I’ve come to associate with it searching through its vast database. "This space was once a communal hub," it begins, the cheer in its voice now tempered with a hint of hesitation. "Designed for rest and recuperation, it was equipped with state-of-the-art amenities to ensure crew morale remained optimal!" It pauses longer than usual, then adds in a quieter, almost nervous tone, "Though I must admit, it does appear somewhat… eerie now."
"Yeah," I mutter, turning away from the fountain. "Eerie is an understatement."
My thoughts are interrupted by a sound—faint, distant, rhythmic. The chant grows louder, metallic and guttural, reverberating through the walls like a living entity. It feels ancient, alien, as though the ship itself is trying to speak. Its source remains hidden, but the oppressive weight of its presence pushes me to move.
People often talk about fight or flight, but they forget the third option: freeze. And for a long, agonizing moment, I was locked in place, every nerve in my body screaming at once. My thoughts raced, desperate for an escape, but all I could do was stand there as the sound grew louder, closer, filling the empty halls with its rhythmic, almost ritualistic cadence. Then, something inside me snapped. The paralysis broke, and instinct took over. I turned and ran, my footsteps pounding against the floor in frantic rhythm with my heart. The chant chased me, its low drone reverberating through the corridors as if the ship itself was joining in.