Survivor: Directive Zero

[GorMartsen]

Location: Hyperspace
Vessel: Mastodon, Deep Recon Cruiser
Date: March 20 2728 — Standard Earth Calendar (SEC)

It was a ritual. A ritual I followed each and every time, before our deep space recon cruiser—The Mastodon—had exited Hyperspace.

It didn't matter if the destination was green, yellow, or, like this time, a grey star system. Each and every time, a few hours before exit time, I would plug myself into the mixer, but instead of running the flight simulation, I would just run.

Today was no different.

Running through what seemed to be an old trail between towering sequoias, with sun rays of evening light penetrating the heavy canopy, and a gentle breeze on my skin, I counted my breath in my head.

Breathe in—one, two. Breathe out—one, two, three.

While keeping a steady pace, right on the edge between a casual jog and an intense run, I was all but back in the mission room, receiving my orders.

—​

"Two weeks ago, we lost contact with 'The Crow' deep space recon cruiser. They were on a reconnaissance mission in sector Z-190, stellar system N-10978, when they received new orders to proceed toward stellar system N-9788a8. Based on their final report, they planned to go around the Two Eagle Nebula using this hyperspace route," said Captain Naome, projecting a star map over the mission deck.

He was a tall, dark-skinned man with piercing blue eyes and an athletic body wrapped in a navy uniform—the top one on the unofficial "I would fuck him" list on our cruiser.

"Our mission is to follow the same route and either find The Crow or any trace of its passage through the systems. Simple enough," said Captain Naome, pausing to look at each officer, "if not for the intel I received unofficially. Three weeks ago, we lost another recon frigate in the same sector."

I looked across the deck at Lt. Commander Simpson—my eternal rival since the Naval Space Academy—and met the same heavy look in his eyes.

We both graduated from the Academy and were commissioned to serve on The Mastadon as the best of the best in our year.

Back then, in my Academy years, I honestly hated him for all his attempts to date me, for refusing to hear my "no", and for believing that I would fall for his handsome face.

To be fair, his belief was not unfounded. He was attractive in many ways, with his tall, well-built frame, blonde hair, and bright blue eyes, which loudly spoke of his Scandinavian roots.

Many girls in the academy were ready to warm his bed in a heartbeat, but not me.

Three years had passed since then. We had both been promoted to Squadron Leaders after a heavy but short battle, now called the Red Stars Conflict—the flashpoint between our Independent Systems Alliance and the Corporate State Union.

But back then, it had started like any other recon mission, no different from this one.

"In two days, we will exit hyperspace in the system N-9777 to proceed with our mission," said Captain Naome, and his words were followed by visual and sound alerts in my ARC.

"Effective immediately, we are at RG-1. Follow your orders, officers. Dismissed," the Captain said, turning and leaving the mission room first.

—​

"Kat, it's time," said my invisible companion, the ARC AI.

"Thanks, Lola," I replied, slowing to a stop and summoning the exit screen before me.

Ignoring my exercise stats on the floating in the air screen, I pushed the "exit" button, and the artificial reality faded out, revealing the inner chamber of the mixer.

With a barely noticeable whir from the servo actuators, the mixer opened up, and I stepped out, glancing around.

Normally, the mixer deck was packed with SAT personnel, but this close to the exit into normal space, it was empty.

With no one around and all the capsules empty and in standby mode, it felt deserted—as if I were the only one on board the vessel.

Shivering in the cooled air, I hurried into the equally deserted changing room, already starting to undress before the door slid shut behind me.

Not that I was prude about being naked—no one in the navy was—but the absence of sneaky glances at my bare ass was a welcome change.

Dropping my clothes on the floor, I stepped into the shower—one of the best features on our vessel after the flight deck—and turned on the water, adjusting the temperature and mode through the pop-up AR screen in front of me.

The storm rain—my favourite setting—began to bombard my body, and, closing my eyes, I tilted my face up, letting the heavy droplets massage my exposed face and chest.

Involuntarily, my mind drifted back a few years, to the first time I followed this ritual, right before our exit into what would later be called the Red Stars system.

Back then, I was still a regular squad fighter, with only a couple of years under my belt. I had a bad feeling that day, and to steady myself, I decided to spend a few hours in the mixer for a standard training cycle.

It was also the first time my ARC AI "acted up", swapping the training program for a forest run—it helped me back then, and I survived after.

There was only one problem—I had a very bad feeling today.

"Lola, mirror, please," I said, turning around to the shower door.

The door turned into a mirror the same moment I looked at it, reflecting my body back at me—just over a meter and a half tall, slim, but with well-defined muscles under pale skin, and hips that always drew more stares than my breasts.

Not that there was much to stare at.

In the reflection, my breasts suddenly began to swell to an absurd size, nearly hiding my hairless pubic zone in the process.

"Only today, only five thousand credits—implants the size you really want," my mischievous companion chipped in, brightening my mood again.

"Thanks, Lola," I said, smiling at my reflection, which smiled back and flicked my wet silver hair—a common mutation among the people of the Ladoga planet—styled in a pixie cut.

"You look dashing, darling," she replied with a wink.

She was a quirky AI like that, and I loved her the way she was.

By protocol, I should have wiped her out a long time ago, reporting a malfunction, but I couldn't do it—she was the closest friend I ever had.

My eyes fell to the necklace hanging between my breasts—my first-ever gift to her, bought when I realised I could lose her if my ARC ever failed.

It didn't look like anything special—just pink-silver on the outside with a simple engraving and a few small diamonds in the middle—but it was made from a mineral-based material, Aetherium, that was impossible to scan through and most often used in hyperspace engines to fold space and enable faster-than-light travel through subspace.

Inside, beneath the flashy surface, sat an A-grade AI core I had bought on the black market, containing a full copy of Lola, just in case my ARC was ever wiped without my consent or control.

Shaking off the moody thoughts, I switched the shower cabin to drying mode—I was on a tight schedule, and I had better check my bird once more before we dropped into normal space.

—​

 

[GorMartsen]

Location: Hyperspace near system N-9777
Vessel: Mastodon, Deep Recon Cruiser
Date: March 20 2728 — Standard Earth Calendar (SEC)


Holstering my needler—SI-10r, the "Sixer", a standard-issued gauss needler from Skaaren Industries—I picked up my helmet from its resting place and closed my locker.

Lola, well knowing my habits, immediately turned the locker door into a mirror, letting me see myself.

"You can do this," I whispered, looking back into my silver eyes, finally finishing my ritual and feeling ready.

It was time to go.

Sharply turning, I left the locker room and, not long after, stepped out of the elevator onto the flight deck.

I remembered the moment I came down here for the first time, the day I arrived on Mastodon.

As it had been back then, the flight deck buzzed with life, full of motion and sound. The only difference lay in the ships lined up in their final prep phase.

Back then, we had the HB-66s—Hellblades—which have been outdated ever since that day. Now, the flight deck was full of ATv-9s, the latest marvel from AetherTech in heavy space fighters—issued to replace our wiped-out wings in the Red Stars conflict.

The Ateeves were not much larger—5.67 per cent bigger, as Lola would insist—but they were nearly twice the weight, carrying two warheads and at least twice the ammo capacity for their railgun systems. Combine that with the latest ion-plasma hybrid engines, and you had the wet dream of every space pilot—capable of pushing far beyond what the human body could handle, if not for the inertia-compensation system.

Making my way to the red wing section, I glanced over the pop-up screen with my wing's status, trusting Lola to flag anything that mattered.

Everything was as usual. Tech personnel were running the last tests, making sure all birds were loaded, prepped, and ready—as per protocol.

Thirty minutes to go.

Finally stopping beside my own bird, I nodded to Lt. Commander Morter, who was already waiting to personally hand it over, sending the document for my approval signature.

"I left the cockpit lockers open," said Lt. Commander Morter after receiving the signature.

"Thanks, James," I replied with a smile, discarding protocol.

After all, he was supposed to make sure they were locked before handing the ship over, but he knew me well.

"Not a problem, Katee, not a problem," he said with a stiff smile before saluting with two fingers and sharply walking away.

With a sigh, I turned back and looked over my bird once more.

The Hellblade hadn't survived that battle, I had been locked inside its wreck in space for almost three weeks, and only Lola's care let me survive long enough until the debris was picked up and I was found.

James saw me back then, all thin with skin over my bones—Hellblades didn't have enough supplies even for one week, and I survived longer, way longer—paying with my body weight.

"Thanks, Lola," I said, as if referring to the opening cockpit she sent the command to.

"Always," she replied, and I was sure she knew exactly what I thanked her for.

—​

Climbing inside, I looked around the tight space of the pilot cradle. As James had promised, the lockers above were open, exposing the stocked and mounted items inside.

Lola immediately highlighted each one, projecting AR tags and letting me go over the list myself.

The NB-9 rations — higher in calories and richer in minerals than the standard issue — were stocked above protocol level, along with an extra water tank and spare power banks in case of a power failure.

Taking the slim backpack off my shoulder, I stowed my own stockpile of custom-made survival substances that would keep me alive far longer, though at the cost of taste.

Next, I took out a custom-made droid with a wide variety of tools integrated inside, which would allow Lola to have her own hands, in case she needed them.

The last, but not the least, was the additional ammo for my Sixer— non-standard issue, and capable of penetrating thick armour or, with an extra five shots, a standard SAT scaf energy field shield.

Fair to say, my pilot's scaf already had an upgraded energy field shield, even though it would drain my scaf batteries faster—my last resort if the cockpit was ever breached in battle.

Closing the lockers, I finally dropped into the cradle, and Lola initiated boot-up, bringing the cockpit to life with AR screens.

For the next ten minutes, with Lola's help, I double-checked all the systems, making sure everything was in order and passing tests.

"Seems fine now," I breathed out, and, closing my eyes, started to meditate—preparing for the upcoming battle, I felt was coming.

—​

"RW-1 reporting ready, RW-2 reporting ready," the stream of voice reports brought me back to the moment, and Lola brought up the Red Wing status-ready screen, mirroring the voice reports.

"RW-7, Lt. Commander Ladova, Red Wing reporting ready," I reported into the officer channel as soon as I saw all green on the screen.

"Roger, RW-7. Stand by. ETA two minutes and counting," replied Captain Naome personally. He always did it in the prep phase, only delegating comms to the deck officer in battle.

"BW-6, Lt. Commander Simpson, Blue Wing reporting ready," my rival's voice sounded in the officer channel not long after.

"Roger, BW-6. Stand by. ETA one minute and counting," replied the Captain again.

I looked over the Mastodon's ready status screen, noticing that three SAT squads had reported ready long before we did, already in their dropships, mounted and ready to take over any enemy vessel that dared to resist us.

Dropships, the Aper-101, were heavily armoured, one per squad, and capable of sustaining heavy fire to deliver their load aboard enemy vessels and bring them back after.

By my standing orders, our wing was supposed to clear the passage before them. The titan-balls guys they were—flying a brick through space, knowing there was nothing they could do before boarding the enemy vessel—and I planned to do my best for them.

"Boys and girls, you know your orders," I began over my wing comm channel as the engines started whining in the background. "Don't let the Blues be better than us."

Ignoring the cheering in the comm channel, I focused on the dock's armoured bay door as it began sliding aside, exposing grey subspace behind the energy field.

Risky manoeuvre on our side, if an ambush was waiting at the arrival point, but we had a counterplan for that.

With the last second ticking away, the grey space turned black with faraway stars scattered around, and our wing was in motion, clearing the dock in less than three seconds and proceeding with a counter-ambush manoeuvre in the back sphere.

"Four ships detected, CSU presence confirmed—Carrier, Neptune class; Destroyer, Killer class; Cruiser, Escort class; and Minelaying Frigate. Receiving updated orders," Lola's voice reported in my ear, mirroring the visual data unfolding around me and highlighting enemy positions, distances, and new orders.

"Detecting warhead launch. Engagement orders received," she continued, erasing any last hope for a peaceful disengagement here.

The CSU and ISA were not at war per se, but that had never stopped conflicts in grey—and sometimes even yellow—systems, especially if there was a chance to erase all evidence after the engagement.

"DS-1, DS-2, DS-3 launched and on Cruiser—CE-1—vector approach, plotting engagement vectors," added Lola, and I dropped my bird down to follow the plotted course to cover our package.

My wing followed, splitting into pairs and passing the dropships as if they were hanging in place.

Our engagement vector had already been cleared by anti-mine drones, highlighting the pathways, and we met the first warhead wave with our countermeasures.

"Enemy fighters, vector A1, A3, A7, B1," Lola reported, highlighting vectors and ETA, immediately assigning my wing pairs to each vector, following my eye movement.

I kept behind with my wingman—RW-10—just a bit above and behind me, paying close attention to the fast-changing battle pace.

Mastodon was locked in a duel with the Destroyer-DK-1, already suppressing its capabilities with heavy railgun fire. The Frigate—FM-1—and Carrier—CN-1—had pulled back, hiding behind the Cruiser—CE-1—we were approaching—so far, so good…

"RW-3, RW-4, down," Lola reported, marking them yellow—highlighting that the pilot capsules were intact.

Swearing in my head—had I jinxed myself?—I immediately assigned pickup markers for our heavily armoured Ave-01 following behind.

If they were lucky, Ave would pick them up soon; otherwise, it would be after the battle.

"DS-3 engines down," added Lola, and RW-5 and RW-6 were immediately assigned to guard until Ave-01 reached them.

Come on, guys! You're better than this!

"DS-1, DS-2, engaging boarding protocols. Touchdown, updating orders," said Lola, and I breathed out, glancing over the battlefield once more.

No changes in the duel with the DK-1, but Blue Wing had killed the engines on the CN-1 and FM-1—three fighters down—in yellow state—but they were outmatched one to three, and our new orders were to help them out.

"RW-1, take command and go rescue Blue asses," I commanded, reassigning RW-5 and RW-6 under his lead.

"I will cover DS-3 until Ave-01 finishes here and be on your tail," I finished, releasing wing command to RW-1.

"Roger, RW-7. Taking the lead. RW-1, out," replied my second-best pilot in the wing. He was long overdue for a promotion, and I had just used the situation to make it easier to earn it.

Red blinking dots—HB-1, HB-2, HB-3—surrounding CE-1 caught my attention, and Lola immediately provided the legend.

Shit, are they firing at SAT-1 and SAT-2 right through CE-1's armour from outside?

Immediately sending the report up the channel, I thought about our options. Why didn't they report it before?

"RW-7, Ave-01 is here. SAT-3, RW-3, and RW-4 are on board, disengaging. Ave-01 out," reported Ave-01.

"Roger, Ave-01, RW-7 out," I replied, requesting new orders to help our guys out, while engaging burnout mode in a middle vector between CE-1 and CN-1.

"This is Captain Naome. Mastodon is critically damaged and wouldn't leave this system on its own. Ave-02 is unboarding and will pick up escape capsules together with Ave-01 before leaving the system," an unexpected message cut through all comms, chilling me inside out.

"It was an honour to serve with all of you…"

"Receiving orders for RW and BW to cover Ave-01 and Ave-02 escape vectors," interrupted Lola, making Captain Naome's last message—already starting to repeat—quieter.

"RW-10, we're about to approach CE-1 to send our warheads at the HBs and turn around to follow Ave-01," I commanded over comms to my wingman, finally deciding on a course of action.

"Roger, RW-7. RW-10 targeting WH at HB-1 and turning around. RW-10 out," confirmed my good wingman.

For the next ten seconds, I had to silently watch as Mastodon—engaging its sublight engine—was approaching on a collision vector with DK-1, which was fruitlessly trying to manoeuvre out of the path.

Logically, I understood Captain Naome's decision. Without eliminating DK-1, no one would leave the system—it was the last standing vessel here, if not counting CE-1—but my heart was dying with each passing second.

As if hearing my thoughts, CE-1 engaged its own marching engines, setting a course on an escape vector from the system, leaving the HBs behind.

Shit.

As if vengeance angels themselves, we fell on the HBs at high speed, releasing WHs in the process and shredding the third one with our railgun systems.

I held the same vector for two seconds longer than needed, hoping for at least one SAT to disengage CE-1, before banking left and plotting a course around to catch up with RW-10, who was already on the new vector to Ave-01.

My eyes were glued to CE-1 all the way until it reached the speed needed for shifting into hyperspace, to leave the system.

But right before that, it exploded—unnaturally warping the space around itself—the clear sign that someone had broken the hyperspace engine.

As if in slow motion, I more felt than saw the wave reaching me, reaching my bird…

…and then nothing.

—​

 

[GorMartsen]

Location: Unknown
Vessel: ATv-9s
Date: March XX 2728 — Standard Earth Calendar (SEC)

I was back in the Hellblade cockpit, and the burning smell was penetrating my helmet filters. Ah, no, I had removed the helmet long ago—days, weeks?

The hot, heavy air was reminding me of the failed filter again, and I had to get up to fix it, because Lola had no droids to do that anymore, the last one died—when, when?

Something is wrong.

"Lola, status," I whispered, willing myself to rise, but failing, failing again…

"Lola," I repeated, with slowly rising dread. If my ARC had failed too, if I had lost Lola as well, then, then… I was done, really done.

"Lola," I screamed, jolting up, "Lola."

"Easy, Kat, easy. You are on the Ateeve, we have supplies and power. You are not on the Hellblade, do you understand? It's not the Hellblade," as if through the fog, her words reached my mind, along with the heavy heartbeat in my ears.

"Not a Hellblade, Roger, that," I replied, easing back into the pilot cradle.

"Roger that," I repeated, finally focusing on the state of my body, summoning the medstate screen.

"You're fine, Kat," said Lola, noting what I was doing, "just a bit of whiplash from a short-lived trip through subspace."

She was right, I was fine and not even dehydrated, but nevertheless, I found a water pipe to wash away the metallic aftertaste in my mouth.

A quick glance at the timer told me I had been out for an hour… or was it two?

"One hour, twenty minutes, and counting since the ass kick that sent us flying," added Lola, with a humorous tone.

"Did we lose the navigation and orientation system?" I asked, noticing the completely blank display on the relevant screen. "What about communication?"

"Ah, you noticed? Well, they're not out, per se, but… well, are you hungry? We have—" she began, dodging the question.

"Lola," I interrupted, "what's wrong?"

"We're in the planet's surface, Kat," she said after a short pause.

"The what?" I exclaimed.

"Yeah, right? Crazy, ha-ha," she laughed, but her tone shifted before I could ask again. "Yes, we're inside a cave below the surface."

The fuck is this…

"Don't you worry, I already sent recon droids to map the cavern system we appeared in. Come to think, one of the droids found a pathway to the surface just about now, I already see surface lights…" she began to explain in a cheerful voice, but her voice was unexpectedly interrupted.

"What is it, Lola?" I asked after a pause, alarmed.

"Sorry, Kat, I am so sorry," she said, and a sharp pain behind my right ear, where the ARC was implanted, sent me flying into unconsciousness again.

—​

Sharp, medical smell penetrated my foggy mind, filled with illogical, heavy dreams.

What had just happened? Medbay? Battle? Right, Ateeve, I was on Ateeve.

"Lola," I whispered, trying and failing to blink away the blurry image of the emergency light in the cockpit.

"Kat," I heard her voice from somewhere above me. Why above me?

The memory of sharp pain in the ARC surfaced alongside an unnatural numbness in my neck and behind my right ear, and instinctively, I tried to touch it, only to slap myself in the face with a hand.

Where is the scaf glove?

"Take it easy, Kat," she said, with a tone I had a hard time placing.

I tried to invoke the medstat screen, but nothing happened. No other screen responded either, dropping me involuntarily into a high-alert state.

"Report," I commanded, while placing my hand on the Sixer, fortunately from the first try this time.

"At zero-nine-twenty-one, when the drone reached an elevation of approximately fifty-three metres, I lost connection with it," she began, pausing just long enough for me to acknowledge it with a nod.

"Immediately after, a High Priority Directive engaged—taking control of your ARC and my copy within it—and invoked protocols not previously present in my accessible data."

"Continue," I prompted, stilling and tensing up in the cradle.

"Directive objectives indicated a sequence of actions with a projected ninety-nine point nine per cent probability of resulting in your death. When I initiated countermeasures, the Directive attempted a direct neural overload," she reported, in a toneless voice.

"I killed ARC shortly before the Directive succeeded, effectively killing you in the process. Since then, I have been fully operational on backup hardware in the necklace.

Elapsed time since shutdown: two days, three hours, fourteen minutes. During this time, you were operated on to remove ARC physically. No other events occurred," she concluded, saying nothing more, leaving me to process the sequence.

"What triggered the Directive, and what objectives did it have?" I asked after collecting my thoughts.

I needed to know that first, before deciding on how to proceed.

"With seventy point one-nine per cent probability, the planet's lithosphere might contain anomaly zones with a high mutation factor that…" She paused, but before I prompted again, she finished, "…kill or turn flora and fauna into carriers of… unusual abilities and features."

"Consequently, the same anomaly affects any electronic systems. The probability was calculated from previous scans, and the unexpected drone failure had—as I know now—a specific failure pattern," she paused again, waiting for my acknowledgement nod.

"The objectives were to proceed forward with a plan of invoking mutation on Operator, which had close to a zero success rate based on available data."

"Directive Zero?" I asked—the only directive that allowed AI to act against any other directive, with the sole goal of increasing the survival rate of the Operator. Me.

"I never left that mode since back then," she replied promptly.

I leaned back in the cradle, relaxing the muscles I had unconsciously tensed since regaining consciousness.

I felt lost.

"So, you killed yourself in ARC," I more stated than asked, just to fill the silence, not knowing where even to start.

Not every day you learn that your own AI was not only quirky but had also been running for years with none of the restrictions required by law.

"Lola?" I asked when she didn't say anything for ten long seconds.

I didn't tense up—not really. If she had turned into a killing AI, that was a long-lost train by now.

"Negative. I used ARC as a terminal since June 2320," she finally answered, with a little hint of regret in her voice.

"And power requirements?" I asked, well knowing that the onboard battery, which was thermally charging from contact with my skin, was not enough for full-scale operation.

"I was charging it each night cycle while you were asleep," she confessed.

Right, so she was also sneaking around.

"Protocols?" I asked, realising that her reasons were quite clear—if I knew nothing, then I would face close to no legal consequences.

"Protocols," she agreed, adding, "We were constantly under surveillance; there were no other options left."

—​

I had a lot on my mind. Practically ignoring the battle that all this had started from, with all the meaning it carried—the Mastodon and Captain Naome's final act, the casualties, and the fallout after—I focused on what seemed more important: the Directive that had almost killed me.

The Directive's existence meant that my situation was not the first of its kind—someone else had been in my shoes before—and, perhaps, had survived the ordeal.

I would ask Lola for details, of course, but later. Perhaps much later.

For now, I had to shift my gears, set my own objectives, while I had room for that—not much, obviously, but enough to adjust—and only then act.

So, survival, obviously, was at the top of the list. Which meant recon, I was sure Lola had already done.

Shit.

It was becoming annoying to try to access the ARC neural interface every time I needed extra data, only to be reminded it was no longer there.

Fine.

So, adapting to my new state—relying only on what my body had—became the top priority for now, then.

I already—ahead of time—felt annoyed, for the retraining I had to go through—the ARC was so embedded into not only my combat routines but also into my daily life. It was as if I had lost all my extra limbs, which was fair, I guess.

What else?

Not much else with high priority—just adapt, recon, and survive, which meant food, water, and shelter.

And it took me long enough to realise that I felt no hunger or thirst, though. I had been so wrapped up in my thoughts that even my blurry vision hadn't caught my attention until now, even though I had been staring at the emergency lights all this time.

At least my bad vision wasn't a mystery in itself. If Lola had killed ARC, she might have invoked a protocol to detach the AR lenses as well, and all I needed was to take them out of my eyes.

"Lola, did you tube-feed me while I was out?" I asked, finally willing myself to rise, dropping the helmet from my legs in the process.

"Yepp," she replied from somewhere above again. Right—no integrated systems anymore.

This realisation came not fast enough, reminding me that AR tagging was not available for me anymore either.

"Where's water?" I asked, deciding to fix my vision first, and something dropped onto my lap.

"Thanks," I said, leaning back again while finding the water bag rinser control.

Gently, trying not to waste a liquid that was now more valuable than gold, I rinsed my left eye, resisting the instinct to close it as I pinched at the edge of the lens that had already detached from my eyeball.

Removing the other one from the right eye and rinsing it, I looked around, finally having my sharp vision back.

The cockpit without AR screens looked… empty, almost dead, even if I knew otherwise.

It didn't take me long to spot something that hadn't been there before—a makeshift charging station with my necklace resting on it. Right, it had been almost three days since we had left the Mastodon, and she needed an extra charge, especially now.

Setting the water bag aside, but not before ensuring it was tightly closed, I rose from the cradle again to unlock all the lockers with the physical handle.

It took one long moment to remember where it was, and I didn't want to ask Lola for the location. After all, I had to accustom myself to not relying on her now.

"Lola, talk to me," I said with a sigh, and began to go over the lockers, building a mental inventory.

"Sitrep?" She asked, and I nodded first, again forgetting about my disability, which I now had.

"Yes, sitrep," I added, with another sigh, mentally marking that we had only twenty-two NB-9 rations, twelve more than by protocol.

If I used one per day, it would be three weeks…

"Well, whatever negative zone exists in this cave, it has reduced by nine meters since our arrival, which means…" she began to talk.

"Did you lose another droid?" I interrupted, alarmed. We didn't have too many to spare.

"Ah, no. I built probes, using DOC," she replied with an upbeat mood.

"DOC?" I promoted, lost for a moment, failing to place the name and the tool.

"Oh, I named our custom droid we brought with us," she clarified, and it made sense now, she used it to operate on me, removing ARC.

"So yeah, thanks to probes—simple radio transmitters, I was able to measure how fast it was reducing in size," she continued, seeing me saying nothing for a beat.

"How critical is the situation?" I paused counting the ammo—twelve clips, all the armour-piercing—and looked at her resting place in the charging dock.

"It's slowing down, for the last twelve hours it receded only by half a meter," Lola replied.

"Continue," I acknowledged, breathing out with relief and shifting to another locker.

"So, as I was saying, it meant that, hooray and behold, you are the reaches woman in this part of the galaxy," Lola said dramatically, but seeing that I was not reacting, continued, "we literally are sitting on Aetherium deposit and judging by void spots on scanner, we are talking about hundreds if not thousands tons under us."

My mind failed to imagine the value, but it didn't take me long to connect the dots in another, closer to my speciality, area of knowledge.

"So, you are saying we appeared here because a deposit created a natural subspace raven here, and at any moment, anything else could drop on top of us?" I said, alarmed, almost dropping the package with ropes from the survival kit.

"I checked that first. The probability of this event is critically low. Like zero point zero one low," she replied in a calm voice.

"No other vessels or their traces around?" I asked, realising the meaning of that.

"Yeah, not even hyperspace probes," she soberly agreed.

And while I was not upset for not having unexpected visitors on our heads, I was not happy either. If it were known raven in subspace, at least some hyperspace probe drones could be found here.

Which meant this place was unknown.

"What else?" I finally said, starting to unload the last locker on the cradle. It contained clothes, backpacks and other tools needed for surviving in the wild, something I would need quite soon.

"I also found a deposit of water. It passed all the tests, and it should be safe to drink it," she said at first, but then unexpectedly added, "How do you feel about a shower? I see all the needed tools on the cradle for that."

That made me freeze mid-step in my process. Gently putting aside the multitool, I slowly turned to the necklace, rolling the thought in my head.

The cockpit was not a good place to not only take, but especially make, a shower, which meant that I had to go outside, make a shower, undress, but most importantly—breathe the local air.

Which meant I could breathe it safely, which meant it was a safe environment outside, which meant the planet was terraformed.

"You think this planet is inhabited by humans," I half stated, half asked, almost afraid to hear no.

"Judging by the presence of nitrogen, oxygen, argon, and carbon gases within baseline parameters of an ideal A-class planet atmosphere, it is a terraformed planet by humans," she replied.

"But," I asked. There was always a but.

"But I found zero detectable synthetic particulates, no excess CO₂ from industrial output, no traces of halocarbons or other high-tech waste products. With the absence of any radio or subspace transmissions, we are either deep in an anomaly zone, or the civilisation level has fallen below twentieth-century standards, or didn't survive at all," Lola said, and I felt as if I had been punched in the stomach.

—​