Days pass as I waver in and out of consciousness.
When awake, I relish how big and spacious the med bay is. I could run laps around it if I wanted to. Small laps, for sure, but laps all the same. After two months trapped in an airlock barely large enough to lie down in, the simple luxury of space makes my chest ache with something I can't name.
When asleep, I do not dream. The medicated darkness is complete. Mercifully empty. No visions of dust storms tearing through canvas shelters, no echoes of failing life support alarms, no imagined conversations with the dead. Just nothing. I'm grateful for this small mercy.
Three days later, Greaves declares it's time for me to get out of bed for the first time.
"Your vitals are stable enough," he says, scanning through my charts. "And lying in that bed isn't doing your muscle recovery any favors."
As he helps me sit up, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I relish the feeling of having room to stretch my legs. The simple act of extending my limbs fully—something impossible in the cramped airlock where I spent the last months of my isolation—sends an almost painful relief through my joints.
"Take it slow," he says, steadying my arm as I slide forward. "Your muscle mass is still critically low. You need to rebuild strength gradually."
My bare feet touch the floor, cold and smooth, legs trembling under my own negligible weight.
"That's it," Greaves encourages, supporting me as I transfer weight to my feet. "Just a few steps today."
The first step sends shock waves of protest through atrophied muscles. The second isn't much better. By the fourth, I'm breathing hard, sweat beading on my forehead from the simplest movement humans are designed to perform.
We make it to the door and back, barely twenty meters round trip. It might as well be a marathon. By the time I'm seated on the edge of the bed again, my heart is hammering and my legs are liquid.
"Good," Greaves says, checking my pulse. His fingers press against my wrist, counting the beats. "Really good for day one. Tomorrow we'll try for the mess hall."
The mess hall. A place with endless amounts of food. The thought sends a sudden, powerful jolt through me—an almost painful longing that makes my mouth water instantly. Real food. Not emergency rations. Not the bland paste I've lived on for months, carefully measured out in shrinking portions as supplies dwindled.
"We could try today," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. My body, recognizing the proximity of actual nourishment, seems ready to override even the worst of my physical limitations.
Greaves levels me with a critical look. “I don’t think so. Maybe tomorrow.”
I nod, embarrassed, and look away. On the deadworld, it didn't matter how critical my condition was — if I had to move, I had to move. Here, I'm allowed to rest and recuperate until I'm ready.
"Moss stopped by earlier while you were asleep," Greaves says, checking something on his tablet. "He's been analyzing the dust samples you brought back. Says the molecular structure is unlike anything we've encountered."
My pulse quickens. "Has he accessed the research data yet? The tests Rivera ran before he—" I stop abruptly, unable to finish the sentence.
"He's working on it," Greaves says carefully. “The core was corrupted — probably by the combined exposure to the dust and to oxygen. He’s confident he can recover everything, but he said it will take some time.”
Anxiety flutters in my chest, but I don’t react to it. It’s out of my hands now. All that’s left for me to do is give as thorough a report as I can when I’m debriefed.
"The crew wants to see you," Greaves continues, helping me lie back. "They've been asking. I've kept them at bay while you stabilized, but—"
"It's fine," I cut him off. The idea of facing them—their questions, their pity—makes my skin crawl, but I know it's inevitable. “Tomorrow. In the mess.”
"I'll let them know." He adjusts something on my IV. The clear liquid flows steadily into my veins, carrying nutrients my body had been starved of for months. "For now, we're moving to the next phase of your nutrition protocol. Actual food, if you can call it that."
My pulse quickens immediately at the word "food." The response is autonomic, primal. Eight months of near-starvation has rewired my brain to respond to nutrition like a drug.
Greaves pulls up a tray from his medical cart, revealing a small bowl of what looks like thin, pale porridge. The smell hits me—subtle, bland, but unmistakably food—and my stomach clenches with an intensity that's almost painful. I have to swallow hard against the sudden rush of saliva in my mouth.
"Start slow," Greaves advises, placing a spoon in my hand. "Your digestive system needs to relearn how to process solid nutrients."
I stare at the spoon, suddenly aware that I can't remember the last time I used one. Surely on one of my last meals before the crash. The only food that survived the crash were emergency nutrient packets, flavorless paste we drank straight from the tube.
The weight of the utensil feels strange. The first spoonful trembles on its way to my mouth.
The vanilla taste is plain, inoffensive, but after months of survival rations, it's almost overwhelming in its richness. I close my eyes involuntarily as the warmth spreads across my tongue.
My body responds with an almost euphoric rush. A small, involuntary sound escapes my throat—something between a sigh and a moan.
"Good?" Greaves asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.
I nod, already reaching for another spoonful.
Then, unbidden, Bennett's face appears in my mind.
"Take it," she'd insisted, her voice barely audible over the airlock's failing circulation system. "I'm not hungry."
A lie. We were hungry. Constantly, desperately. The kind of hunger that gnaws at your spine, that wakes you from fitful sleep, that makes you calculate and recalculate how many days less you might survive if you added just a little more to your portion.
"Maya, don't be ridiculous," I spluttered. "It's not thanksgiving dinner, it's half a nutrition packet. Just eat it."
"You can still make it, Elias," she whispered, ignoring me completely. “You can still get the data home.”
"Thorne? What's wrong?" Greaves's voice sounds distant.
My heart sank to my feet.
This is how Rivera spoke when he was about to go.
"No, Maya, none of that," I said shakily. "You can still get the data home with me. You just need a little food, and you'll be right as rain," I say, tipping the nutrient packet toward her mouth.
She turned her head away, a small movement that seemed to cost her enormous effort. "Don't waste it," she said, her voice firmer than it had been in days. She smiled then—a ghastly shadow of her old commanding expression. "That's an order, Science Officer Thorne."
"You can't pull rank on nutrition," I argued, desperation creeping into my voice. "The protocol clearly states—"
"Protocol?" Her laugh was barely more than an exhale. "We're past protocol, Elias."
I knew she was right. A deep, animal part of me had known it for days, watching her grow weaker, her breathing more labored, resenting every calorie I fed her failing body.
"Please," she said, her eyes closing briefly with fatigue. "Don't make me argue. I don't have the strength."
I hesitated, the packet suspended between us. My hand trembled with hunger, with grief, with shame.
"You get the data home," she whispered. "Tell them what happened here. Make our deaths mean something."
I nodded, mute with misery.
"Good," she said, and I watched her relax, as if passing this final duty to me had lifted a weight from her. "Now eat."
And God help me, I did. I took the half-empty packet from her hands and poured it down my throat, the tasteless paste like ambrosia to my starved body.
Bennett watched, peace settling over her gaunt features.
"That's it," she murmured, her voice growing fainter. "You hold on until they come.”
She smiled as her eyes drifted closed. "I'm just going to rest a bit," she said. "Wake me for my watch.”
But we both knew there would be no more watches for Captain Maya Bennett.
"Of course, Captain," I said, trying to hide my wobbling voice from her. I settled down next to her and pulled her frail body onto my chest. "You just rest."
She slipped into sleep as naturally as she'd done everything else in her life—with quiet dignity and unflinching courage.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
And I sat there, cradling her against my chest, hating myself for how good it felt to eat a full portion today.
An hour later, her heartbeat stopped in my arms.
How dare I enjoy this meal, when I took her last from her.
Shame, sharp and terrible, cuts through my heart like a knife.
How dare I.
The spoon falls out of my hand and clinks back into the bowl.
"Elias," Greaves says, his voice pitched low and gentle. "You have to eat."
Bennett would be pleased to know Greaves is taking up her cause, I think hollowly. But I don’t make a move.
"Think of it as medicine if you have to," he coaxes, his tone shifting to something more clinical. "Your body needs the calories to heal.”
Medicine. That’s what I imagined Laurent telling me, those last two months, when it was time for me to force another nutrient packet down. “Your body needs the calories, Thorne, or you won’t survive. You won’t be able to keep your promise.”
I pick up the spoon again, mechanical now, and force down three more mouthfuls before setting it aside.
The taste that had been so wonderful moments ago now tastes like ash.
"Good," Greaves says, taking the bowl away. "We'll try again in a few hours."
I nod, suddenly exhausted beyond measure.
"Rest," Greaves says, dimming the lights. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”
I don’t bid him goodbye, and he doesn’t expect me to. The door slides shut behind him, leaving me alone with the soft beeping of medical equipment and the distant hum of the ship.
It takes me fifteen minutes to walk the forty meters from med bay, Greaves hovering at my right side, ready to catch me if my body fails. Each step is a negotiation between willpower and physical reality. My legs — once strong enough to carry sampling equipment across uneven terrain for hours — now tremble under my own minimal weight.
By the time we reach the mess hall, sweat has soaked through the ship-issue clothing they've provided me. My breathing is labored, but I refuse to stop and rest.
"Steady," Greaves murmurs, voice calibrated to the perfect clinical mix of encouragement and concern, as the mess hall door slides open.
Four faces turn toward me—the complete crew of the Radiant Hope.
Captain Margot Raines sits at the head of the table, her expression controlled but alert. I remember her from training exercises, always first to spot potential hazards in simulation, always three steps ahead in emergency protocols.
Beside her is Science Officer Vance Arden, the ship's biochemist and the Radiant Hope's equivalent of me. His eyes widen at the sight of me, genuine shock breaking through his professional demeanor.
And across from him, Engineering Officer Darryl Moss, the military terraforming and spaceflight engineer, his normally animated face unnaturally still as he takes in my appearance.
"Dr. Thorne," Raines says formally, rising from her seat. "Welcome aboard the Radiant Hope."
I manage a nod, unable to summon the energy for proper military protocol. As a civilian scientist, they never sat right with me in the first place, and eight months on a deadworld have stripped away any desire I might have had to put up appearances. The social contract feels as alien as everything else.
"Let's get you seated," Greaves says, guiding me to an empty chair.
The simple act of sitting feels like a relief so profound my knees nearly buckle.
The chair is padded, a small luxury that nearly breaks me. I spent months sitting on metal floors, on makeshift platforms fashioned from debris, on anything that would elevate me from the airlock's frigid surface. Now, this simple comfort feels like an obscenity.
The others keep staring, their expressions a mixture of pity, curiosity, and something harder to name. Recognition, maybe, of how easily our positions could have been reversed. There but for the grace of God go they.
"How are you feeling?" Moss asks, breaking the awkward silence.
The question is so disconnected from reality I almost laugh. How am I feeling?
"I'm alive," I say flatly.
The silence stretches a beat too long.
Arden clears his throat. "We've all been..." he hesitates, searching for words. "It's good to see you, Elias. Truly. We feared the worst."
If you didn’t notice, Vance, this is the worst.
My anger surges, hot and bitter.
"We've mapped our return trajectory to Earth," Raines says, voice firm as she retreats to safer ground. At least I can count on her for that. "Transit time approximately three months. We'll maintain communication with Global Space Agency throughout, though there will be the usual lag at this distance."
Three months.
Rescue took eight months, but transit back to Earth will only take three.
I don't need to ask why. I already know the explanation — the orbits were fucking terrible. I'm sure they pushed the Hope's engine as hard as they could, but there's only so fast one can traverse three fucking star systems.
My fist clenches underneath the table.
It's not their fault, I tell myself firmly, So don't you dare flip your can at them.
Raines pauses, sensing my distress but not knowing the cause. She looks to Greaves, who looks just as confused as she does.
I take as deep a breath as I can muster. I force my fingers to relax, one by one, a technique Laurent taught me during particularly stressful simulations.
"It's a straightforward journey," Moss offers, clearly trying to move past the awkward moment. "We'll make a small course correction at the halfway point, but otherwise, it's mostly automated."
Raines nods, visibly regrouping. "Dr. Greaves has designed a rehabilitation program for your recovery. The ship's facilities are at your disposal."
"And HOPE can help with cognitive exercises," Moss adds, his expression brightening as he shifts to a technical topic. His fingers tap briefly on his tablet, activating something. “She’s has been analyzing your medical data to customize a recovery protocol."
As if summoned, a voice emanates from the room's speakers, feminine but clearly synthetic.
"Good morning, Science Officer Thorne. I am HOPE, Heuristic Operations Protocol Entity, the integrated AI of the Radiant Hope. I am programmed to assist with all aspects of ship function and crew wellbeing."
My muscles seize, throat constricting so suddenly I nearly choke. It's the same voice—perfectly, horrifyingly identical to Sky's. The same cadence, the same pitch, even the same slight pause between sentences.
The voice that promised safety seconds before disaster.
"All systems nominal," Sky said, moments before everything failed. "Preparing for departure sequence."
Bennett's steady hands on the controls, confidence in every movement. Laurent checking environmental readouts, her methodical efficiency a comforting rhythm. Rivera confirming navigation coordinates, his subtle humor keeping us grounded through the tension of departure.
HOPE continues, voice sliding into my memory like a knife, "Your preliminary medical assessment indicates significant progress in just four days—"
The first tremor runs through the ship, subtle but wrong. The display panels flicker. Bennett's posture stiffens.
"Sky," she says, "Status report."
"All systems nominal," Sky repeats, but there's a microsecond lag that wasn't there before. "Minor power fluctuation detected in the—"
Warning lights bathe the command center in crimson. Rivera's fingers fly across the interface, his earlier composure replaced by controlled panic. "Power core destabilizing," he shouts over the sudden blare of alarms. "Something's damaged the core!"
Laurent's eyes meet mine across the command center, a split second of shared recognition. This is bad. This is worse than bad.
"Sky, emergency protocols!" Bennett barks, still believing the system might save us.
"Emergency pro-pro-protocols initiated," Sky stutters as her systems begin to fail, betraying us with the same pleasant tone that had guided us for years. "Pr-preparing for departure sequence."
The ship lurches violently. Through the viewport, we watch as the ship enters free fall.
"Brace for impact!" Bennett screams, and then—
My hands grip the edge of the table, knuckles white, nails digging into the synthetic surface.
Hope's sensors immediately detect the change. "Science Officer Thorne, your vital signs just spiked."
The atmospheric friction shrieking against the hull burns my skin through my flight suit —
"Stop," I manage, the word coming out as a strangled whisper, a desperate plea to silence the voice that's dragging me back into hell.
But Hope's microphones must not have picked up my response, because she continues, oblivious. "Your heart rate is climbing and you are hyperventilating. Do you need medical assistance?"
Then the sound of jagged metal tearing —
Lauren’t piercing scream —
The words tear from me, harsh and louder than I intended, my voice cracking with the effort. "Shut UP!”
The silence that follows is absolute.
Moss goes completely still, eyes wide. Arden looks like he's about to speak, then thinks better of it. Greaves moves closer, his medical training overriding any shock.
Raines breaks the silence, her voice controlled but with an edge of concern. "Hope, disengage verbal communication."
Hope does not respond, evidence of her registering the order.
My entire body is shaking, head to toe. I didn’t notice that before.
"Elias," Greaves says softly, "What's wrong?"
I don't want to say anything, but unfortunately, I can't pretend I didn't just shout at the totally innocent AI.
My response is tight, whispered. “Her voice was the last thing we heard before we crashed.”
Raines' next words brook no argument. "Moss will see if the GSA included other voice options on board."
"Yes," Moss agrees firmly, nodding his head eagerly. "Of course. I should have thought of that." His guilt is palpable. He glances at Arden, who looks equally stricken.
"Maybe we should continue this later," Greaves suggests, his hand steady on my shoulder, a physical anchor to the present.
"No," I say, surprising myself. "No, I'm okay." The last thing I want is to be treated like I'm about to shatter. I've survived things that defy comprehension. I will not be broken by a memory. "Let's continue."
Raines studies me for a moment, her military assessment weighing my capability to function, then nods, respecting my decision. "Hope, have a unit bring appropriate nutrition for Dr. Thorne."
HOPE makes no verbal response, but across the room, an Ancillary Unit—identical to the two we had on the Boundless Sky—gives a slight mechanical nod and moves toward the food synthesizer.
An uncomfortable silence blankets the room. I can see them all struggling with what to say, how to act around me. Their concern is suffocating, their grief a tangible thing.
"We've settled into a good rhythm," Arden says finally, breaking the silence. "Established some routines to keep everyone sane, if you’d like to join them.”
"We've got a schedule for shared activities," Moss adds, his tone deliberately casual, trying to normalize the conversation. "Game night on Thursdays. Movie screenings on Saturdays in the common area. It helps break up the monotony of shift rotations."
"Friday is music night," Arden says. "We take turns blasting our music on the speakers. Last week was Raines's classical piano. The week before, Moss subjected us to punk rock."
"Which was a vast improvement over Greaves' opera collection," Moss counters good-naturedly, a well-worn joke between long-term crewmates.
The Ancillary places a bowl of something that resembles oatmeal in front of me. The scent of cinnamon wafts up—a small luxury I'd forgotten existed.
"You have to eat," Bennett said.
I force myself to raise the spoon to my mouth. You need the calories.
It's bland compared to pre-mission meals, but after months of emergency rations, it tastes almost decadent.
Shame curls in my stomach, but I follow Bennett's orders and eat the entire thing.
"You should join us," Moss says suddenly. "For game night. Tomorrow, actually." He looks to the others for support. "If you're feeling up to it, of course."
Greaves opens his mouth, likely to object on medical grounds, but Raines speaks first. "Only if Dr. Thorne feels ready," she says, her tone making it clear that my refusal would be perfectly acceptable.
"Maybe," I say noncommittally, unwilling to commit to something that feels so utterly trivial right now.
They accept this with visible relief, as if my non-refusal is itself a victory.
The conversation shifts into the small details of daily life aboard the Radiant Hope—the comfortable routines and minor conflicts that emerge when the same people share limited space for months. It's familiar territory; the Boundless Sky had similar rhythms before the crash. Movie nights in the common area. Rivera's terrible taste in classic films. Laurent's unexpected talent for chess. Bennett's ritual morning coffee, the one luxury she allowed herself.
I listen more than I speak. There's something grounding about their casual interaction, reminding me of the structured days I once took for granted.
Days my crew will never experience again.
I finish half the bowl before fatigue hits me like a physical weight, pulling me back to the present reality of my weakened condition. The simple act of sitting upright, of eating, of existing in this social space has drained what little strength I've recovered.
"That's probably enough excitement for today," Greaves says, noticing my drooping eyelids, the way my shoulders have begun to curve inward.
I don't argue this time.
As I start to rise, Raines speaks. "Thorne." Her voice has softened, the military precision giving way to something more human. "We're glad you're here. All of us. I need you to know that."
The sincerity in her voice makes me uncomfortable. What am I supposed to say to that? Thank you for being glad I'm alive while my friends are dead?
I manage a nod, unable to meet her eyes.
Greaves helps me to my feet, steadying me as we make our slow way back to the med bay.