Chapter Text
It has been a lifetime since my crew and I left the comfort of our home.
The scientist on Erid discovered that an alien microbe was infecting the empty space between our sun and Threeworld, blocking out Eridani more and more with each new generation. Eridani was not the only star infected this way, but it was the most important. Unless we found a solution, Erid would be no more.
Only one star in the local cluster remained uninfected. Scientists couldn’t figure out the reason why when observing back home, so the decision was made to go into outer space. If scientists could replicate the stars' capabilities, perhaps the next generation of my people would have a chance of survival.
So here I am—an engineer trying to save my planet.
Ah. I must’ve forgotten to mention. I am an engineer. One of the best, I suppose, because I was sent into the Tau Ceti system to save my fellow Eridians. I am starting to doubt my capabilities, though. Everything keeps breaking, and no matter how many times I try to fix the problems, they keep reappearing like I didn’t even attempt to fix them in the first place. It is hard being the only engineer.
Though that is not the only thought that plagues me. I am the last alive on my ship. I have been alone for a long time. Longer than I could count, and I have not felt the comfort of being watched in what feels like a millennium. It hurts. Sometimes, I wonder, why me? I am unsure why I, out of all the other Eridians on the ship, have survived.
It doesn’t matter.
I must continue this mission. It is my world’s only hope; I am Erid’s only hope.
I try not to dwell on that fact too much. It interferes with being able to problem-solve and focus. Honestly, it interferes with everything.
That thought is a heavy one to bear.
Yet, I have to continue. I must continue. What else do I have? How else do I honor my crew? I will not die here.
♫- here! I am here, aren’t I?
My limbs press against the inner wall of the ship, body and arms pressed into the xenonite like I have done many times before. The thick endoskeleton of the ship is just about the only thing that hasn’t failed me like everything else seems to do. The vibration of the life-support system seeps through my limbs into the rest of my body. It is a familiar, friendly feeling. Perhaps the only familiarity I can count on nowadays.
I speak softly into the wall, and the ship responds with its own kind of echo. I can recognize every curve, angle, and surface, and I quickly recalibrate to make sure everything is how it should be. The reply is delayed; the sound echoes through hallways and empty rooms that I haven’t needed to use in years. The ship almost sounds… annoyed? It is hard to put into words. The ship does not like empty spaces, yet it hates all of my tools and projects being scattered about.
The ship is… correct, I suppose. The heat of the ship wraps around me comfortably; this is how it is supposed to feel. How it is supposed to be.
So why? Why do I feel amiss?
For a moment, I wait in anticipation for another part of the ship to break.
However, it never comes. If everything is okay on board, then what is causing my carapace to twitch with discomfort?
Then I notice it. It’s a very small movement, easy to miss if you are not paying attention. I feel a vibration unlike that of the hull. There is a shift. A slight change in rhythm where there should not be one.
That is not right. I need to investigate.
I lean my body closer into the xenonite, pressing into the source of the disturbance. The vibration shifts under my limbs as I focus. This is not structural. It is not life support or propulsion. I dig deeper into the reverberations.
There—
A rapid, repeating pulse layered beneath the hull's normal resonance. It is faint, yet precise. I have felt this before. Not often, or even recently. But I know that shift. It matches the pattern of the infrared sensors.
My whole body stills against the wall. I did not activate the sensors. Which means something outside the ship triggered them.
My hands pull tight against the xenonite for only a moment before I decide to move.
Fast.
I crawl along the inner hull, gripping and releasing in quick succession. The vibrations shift beneath me as I move, the steady hum of the ship stretching and warping with each step. I need a clearer reading. What if it is an asteroid heading my way? That would ruin the mission. My entire purpose.
The sensors are active, but they are far from focused. Whatever is out there slips through the edges of my perception.
Finally, I reach the sensor cluster. The infrared array is embedded deep into the ship's structure. I press myself against it, arms and body wrapping around the xenonite to feel the data directly. The pulses sharpen beneath me, clearer than anywhere else on the ship.
The heat is wrong.
It is not the heat of the ship—not the steady, even warmth I am used to. This is sharper and more focused. Flickering at the edges like it does not belong here. I shift my weight along the control ridges. The pulse changes, responding to the pressure.
There is an external source. The signal spikes bright with heat, far hotter than ambient space should allow.
Then, a shape slowly begins to form in the data beneath my touch. It’s large, angular, and completely wrong. The surfaces are incredibly smooth and flat; the edges are too sharp. The structure cannot be efficient. It should collapse under the pressure. It should not exist at all. And yet, it starts to move. Move! I wiggle my carapace in excitement.
No. Not excitement.
Fear.
Before I can ponder further, another thought forces its way forward. It is not an asteroid.
Which means… I am not alone.
Whatever is out there is not of Eridian design. It is not anything I know or have ever comprehended. For a moment, I am completely still. I must calculate.
Once I integrate the telemetry and pulses, I push myself off the IR sensor and hurry to the navigation cluster. I have done this so many times; it is as instinctive as walking. The ship hums around me as I interface with the maneuvering system. I can feel the controls respond beneath me, waiting for input. I send a query pulse through the system.
Current velocity: Stable
External object: Moving relative to me at a slow drift.
If I do nothing, it will pass by. That is unacceptable.
I use two of my hands to adjust the orientation first. Small rotational bursts descend from the jets. The ship answers almost immediately, twisting through space. The vibrations shift as the mass of the ship redistributes. I angle the forward sensors directly toward the object, letting the navigation system integrate the IR, radar, and pressure-field data. Slowly, the shape resolves in my mind. It's definitely artificial.
What built this? How is it here? Why is it here? Is it for the same reason as I?
Focus.
I engage the main drives at minimal output. Just enough thrust to cancel out the relative motion, but not enough to run away. The engines emit a low, powerful vibration that I can feel through the ship, aligned with the ♪♬ ♫♭♩. I interpret the sensor returns carefully.
Relative velocity: Decreasing… decreasing… zero!
I cut the thrust immediately. The object remains in position beside me. I have matched its velocity exactly. My internal systems spike with a mix of fear and curiosity. This is deliberate. I am choosing to stay near it.
I send another pulse through the system, observing the IR panel. The object returns a clean signal. Curved pressure vessels, thinner hull plating; inefficient yet functional. I trace the signals through the navigation interface, mentally reconstructing the structure from the combined sensor data. It is not just a heat signature.
It is a full, integrated map of something entirely alien.
Another spaceship?
No autonomous probe would be built this way. It is too large, for a start, and much too complex. It has to be a spaceship.
I hesitate briefly before I notice another heat signature coming from what seems to be the rear of the ship beside me. The engine, perhaps? If something is inside, maybe it wants to communicate?
Not wanting to wait any longer, I replicate the same pulse pattern through my own engines. I watch the IR readouts closely, matching timing and intensity precisely to the foreign spacecraft's bursts. Three short bursts, a long one, and one more short one.
♫♫♫ ♫♫ ♫
My hands tighten around the controls. This is replication! It wanted me to replicate the bursts coming from the ship! Some part of or inside that vessel observed that I was near, sent me a pattern, and once recognized, continued! I run through every known possibility. Nothing I conjure seems to fit.
This requires intelligence. The kind of intelligence that could maybe, just maybe, create a spaceship.
No Eridian ship is unaccounted for— there are no other ships. No other intelligent life is known in the galaxy aside from our own. Yes, on Erid, there have been talks for generations as if this were possible, but it has never been proven.
And yet, here it is. Right next to me, separated only by the vacuum of space. I adjust the ship’s position again, bringing it closer to the other craft. I keep the relative at zero. Position is critical; a collision at this distance would be catastrophic.
And also a little bit rude.
The other ship remains steady beside my own. It doesn’t retreat or attack, it simply just… sends and responds. Is it the ship itself? It is smart enough to engage with whatever else might be in the star system. At this point, it does not matter- something is out there capable of building, steering, and calculating whatever it is that is in front of me.
I am not alone in the universe.
I am not alone in the universe.
I remain still for a moment, still pressed against the controls. My thoughts are not steady. That is… not me. I am not like this. I need to do better.
Unknown intelligence. Unknown intentions. Unknown biology. But it responds. It understands patterns, like me. That is enough knowledge for me to proceed.
I shift my position along the control cluster, moving toward the external control systems. My hands grip and release against the ridges with practiced precision. The ship hums steadily beneath me.
External manipulation output: Inactive. That will change.
A series of vibrations confirms activation. The hull systems respond as the unit unlocks from its resting positions, and I feel the movement before I map it. The external arms extend along its track, and I make sure to monitor its position through returning pulses. I use two of my hands to control it along the track. One hand for movement, and to control which arm is in use, the other to control the individual digits. Every joint has full articulation. There is no mechanical error. For now.
Good.
I have to send something to the other ship. It is my only way of knowing if this other thing can truly understand what I am or what I am doing. But what? What do I send? It cannot be a tool. That is too valuable and complex. Plus, they may not even have hands to use them with!
It also cannot be a structural component- too many ways to interpret such a thing. It has to be something simple.
Got it!
I leap from the navigation system and move to the storage recess and retrieve a small sample cylinder. It is smooth, evenly weighted, easy to handle, and analyze. If it is easy for me, it should be easy for them as well. It’s the best thing I’ve got in the little time I have. This will do.
With the cylinder secured firmly in one of my hands, I return to the control cluster.
With the external manipulation system already being active, I press my palms into the control ridges, which send a command pulse through the xenonite. The response is immediate. I feel the arms awake outside the hull; its joints unlocking, its track shifting into position. The returning vibrations map its posture in my mind. One of the arms is open, waiting for me to place the cylinder inside.
I move carefully, aligning myself with the control nodes. One hand settles into the track controls. Another into the wrist articulation. The remaining hands hover over the digit controls, ready. Every system responds through pressure and resonance, being a perfect extension of my own limbs.
I bring the cylinder forward, and the arm mirrors me.
Its fingers open in anticipation, each joint adjusting in micro-movements that I can feel through the feedback pulses. I guide the cylinder into position, making small corrections as the system compensates for my motion. I maintain equilibrium and carefully bring the cylinder closer.
Closer… closer… there!
With a click, the cylinder makes contact with the arm’s grip. The arm has taken the weight!
I ease my hold gradually. Now, all that is left to worry about is the velocity. I run the calculations quickly. The other ship adjusted its motion in response to my engine output almost instantly, so it must experience time and motion the same way I do. It understands relative movement, and something might be waiting for my next move. When I fired a low-thrust burst, my velocity changed slightly. I will match that exactly. I reposition the arm along the hull until it is aligned with the other ship. The distance has to be small.
Very small.
I adjust the release angle slightly, slowly making minor corrections to be precise.
I steady my mind and disengage the grip with a flick of the robot's wrist. The cylinder leaves the arm cleanly, rotating ever-so-slightly end over end as it tumbles towards the other ship.
This is acceptable.
I make sure to minutely track it for the entire journey. The velocity is staying consistent and is moving towards the other ship. I don’t even notice how still my body is until my hand inside the control nodes starts to cramp.
This is special.
My internal systems hum louder than before. I am aware of every vibration, shift, and sound in my ship. The cylinder continues forward.
There may be another mind out there. And I have just sent it a message.