Alarms pulled Aiden out of unconsciousness.
A sharp ringing filled his ears.
grrrkKrrAAANG!
The first thing he felt upon waking was the ship shuddering, followed by rising heat and smoke that burned his throat when he tried to breathe.
"Khh-khh." He coughed hard, his chest tightening as the smoke forced its way in.
Worse, the hull emitted a strained, uneven sound, as though the ship was close to breaking apart. Everything was not looking too good, the more Aiden assessed his situation.
He coughed several more times from the smoke, his chest burning, and when he tried to swallow, he tasted blood. Then, as if on cue, a flat, emotionless system voice cut through the chaos.
[CRITICAL ALERT][REACTOR CONTAINMENT FAILING][CORE STABILITY COMPROMISED][IMMEDIATE INTERVENTION REQUIRED]
Aiden tried to sit up. Pain flared everywhere at once. His vision narrowed. He clenched his jaw and forced himself to move anyway. One arm. Then the other. He dragged himself across the deck, boots scraping against the warped plating of the ship's cold floor.
This was a research-class vessel. It wasn't armed, nor was it built for battle. But the reactor at its heart was no toy. If it went, it would not matter that this ship was meant for study and discovery.
The blast would be enough to erase everything nearby. Enough to rival weapons no sane government admitted to owning.
His hands shook as he reached the control console.
Focus!
He forced the words through his head as if speaking them aloud.
Aiden forced the ship's systems into manual override, severing the adaptive flow regulators that were trying to compensate for the reactor breach. The moment he cut them, the core stopped chasing false stability.
Power spikes flattened. The feedback loop, no longer amplifying its own errors, began to settle into a narrow, survivable range. Pain tore through his shoulders and spine, but he locked his hands in place and isolated the secondary coils one by one.
He did not rush. Rushing killed people. Even when he was pressed for time.
His fingers slipped. Sweat stung his eyes. The ringing grew louder. He blinked hard, fought the blur, and keyed in the next command.
The pressure spike was now barely within tolerance as he triggered the mechanical latch release by pulling the red tab on the left panel.
Pain roared up his arm as he grunted and forced himself not to stop, leaning his weight forward before slamming his palm onto the final control.
The alarms cut off mid-tone.
The ship fell quiet.
Aiden stayed where he was, chest heaving, braced for an explosion that never came.
[Energy Levels: Stable]
Seeing this, the tight pressure in his chest finally eased as relief broke through the tension, leaving him exhaling slowly after a moment that had felt far too close for comfort.
"How long..." he muttered, but the words broke apart as a violent cough tore through his chest, forcing him to bend forward while smoke still hung thick in the air.
His eyes watered as he steadied himself.
Aiden then moved to the nearest display, where system readouts lagged and recovery warnings blinked instead of full alerts. The heat had not fully faded, and the deck plating nearby was warped, telling him the systems had only recently stabilized.
He pulled up the system logs and found the timestamp and found out that he had been unconscious for a little over forty minutes.
His stomach sank.
If he had stayed conscious, even for a short time, he could have acted sooner and kept the systems stable. He could have reduced the power loss and stopped the emergency systems from draining the reserves so quickly. He understood how fast a ship could lose energy when things went wrong, and that knowledge only made the outcome harder to accept.
Forty minutes was enough for the damage to compound.
Too long to stop it cleanly.
Only thirty percent of the energy levels remain.
Seventy percent gone. That was enough energy to power a full city for a year. Burned away while he was unconscious.
His hand curled into a fist. Then he forced it open.
Anger would not bring it back.
He took stock of himself instead. There was a more pressing matter to address.
He pulled a pen from his pocket and let it drop, watching it fall straight down and strike the deck with a sharp tap before rolling to a stop. There was no drift or delay, which told him that gravity was fully present again.
His suit responded with a steady hiss as it continued supplying air, the sound calm and even despite the damage it had taken. Cracks had spread across the chest plating, thin white stress lines marking where the impact had nearly torn it apart, but the pressure readings stayed stable and the seal indicator remained green.
There were no leaks, and that alone eased some of the fear tightening his chest.
The suit was damaged, but it still worked. Oxygen flowed normally and internal pressure held, which meant he was not exposed to whatever environment lay outside. As long as the systems kept running, he could breathe, move, and think clearly enough to stay alive.
"Something's wrong here.."
The feeling lingered, heavy and impossible to ignore.
Just moments ago, he had been in space. There should have been no gravity, no weight pressing him down, and no pressure pulling him toward the deck.
But here he was, pinned in place by his own body weight.
Aiden pressed his lips together, unease creeping in as the realization formed slowly in his mind. The facts did not line up, and the more he thought about it, the more unsettled he became.
He tried to sit fully upright. Pain speared through his ribs again, sharp enough to steal the air from his lungs.
He coughed hard, the warm metallic taste of blood spreading across his tongue, and swallowed it back as the suit filtration system worked to clear smoke, fine debris, and chemical residue from the air he was breathing.
He lifted a gloved hand toward the inside of his helmet out of habit, then stopped himself, knowing better than to break the seal while the filters were still compensating.
"J.E.M, check body vitals.." he said, forcing his voice to stay steady.
Silence.
His brow furrowed as unease tightened in his chest. He tried again, but a bit louder this time.
"J.E.M., check my location!"
Still nothing. No acknowledgment.
The realization settled like ice. The AI was down.
"What... the hell is happening?" he muttered, clicking his tongue in frustration.
He forced himself to slow his breathing by drawing air in through his nose and releasing it through his mouth, carefully counting each breath in his head as he fought to keep panic from taking control.
The motion hurt, and every expansion of his chest sent a dull ache through his ribs, but he maintained the rhythm because losing control now would only make things worse.
Once the ringing in his ears faded enough for him to focus, Aiden surveyed the control room. Twisted panels and scattered debris littered the floor, and near one of the walls he spotted the med kit, half buried beneath fallen plating.
He dragged himself toward it, his injured side screaming with every movement, and pulled it free before snapping the case open.
He lifted a shard of reflective glass from a cracked panel and used it as a makeshift mirror to examine his eyes. His pupils reacted normally to the light, which eased some of the tension in his chest.
Aiden then pressed his fingers against his abdomen and flinched as pain flared along his side. The bruising was uneven and deep, but there was no sharp internal pressure or immediate loss of breath, which meant nothing vital had been punctured.
The injuries were serious and painful, but they were not immediately fatal, and that was enough to keep him moving. The pain reacted exactly as it should, sharp and real, which told him this was no illusion or any kind of hallucination.
Gritting his teeth, Aiden pushed himself upright and began moving through the control room, shutting down every system that was not essential for survival.
The ship itself was still far from safe. He needed to move or he will really be a goner soon.
One console after another went dark as he cut power to the laboratories, reduced the lighting to emergency levels, and disabled the communications array.
The constant background hum of the ship slowly faded as each system powered down, leaving behind only the deep, steady vibration of the reactor resonating through the deck.
He limped toward the reactor containment section, his steps unsteady and uneven, and stopped in front of the secondary mechanical cutoff.
This system existed for one purpose only, to halt the reactor manually if all automated controls failed. It relied on physical force rather than software, and once engaged, it could not be overridden without deliberate effort.
He wrapped his hands around the lever and pulled. The mechanism resisted for a brief moment before giving way with a heavy mechanical clunk, but the reactor did not surge or fluctuate. Its low, steady thrum remained unchanged, which confirmed that the core was still stable.
Even so, he refused to take chances.
Mounted along the containment wall was the manual suppressant canister, a last resort fire control system designed to be deployed by hand. Aiden stepped toward it, gripped the handle, and yanked the pin free before triggering the release.
The canister discharged with a sharp hiss, flooding the compartment with suppressant. A wave of cold air rolled outward as the agent filled the space, instantly smothering the remaining fire and cutting off every chemical reaction it touched.
The flames died out almost at once, and the temperature dropped as the sounds of burning metal and sparking systems faded away. Aiden took in the silence and assessed the situation, realizing that the ship no longer felt like a place where he would die.
With the immediate danger out of the way, the surge of adrenaline finally drained from Aiden body. He leaned heavily against the wall as the strength left his limbs. Pain and exhaustion rushed in all at once, making his muscles shake until his legs could no longer hold him.
Aiden slid down the cold metal surface and ended up seated on the floor, breathing hard as he tried to steady himself.
"Sh..it.."
His breathing slowed, and the room began to blur at the edges of his vision. His head tipped forward as his strength failed him completely, and despite his efforts to remain conscious, he lost awareness once again as darkness closed in.
******
Aiden woke to silence, the kind that pressed in on him instead of fading into the background. There were no alarms blaring, no vibration humming through the hull, and no warning lights flashing at the edge of his vision. There was only the sound of his own breathing, loud inside his helmet, steady and unmistakably alive.
He did not bother checking his vitals. The simple fact that he was conscious was proof enough that he had survived. His body ached from head to toe, but the pain no longer felt sharp or blinding. It had settled into something dull and persistent, the kind that could be endured if he was careful.
He brought up the internal timestamp, and the moment he saw it, his stomach tightened.
Two days had passed.
He had been unconscious for two full days.
The weight of that realization settled heavily in his chest as fear crept in, slow and cold. Too much could have gone wrong in that amount of time.
Systems could have failed completely. Structural damage could have spread unchecked. If anyone else had survived the crash, there was no guarantee they still had.
He pushed the thought aside and tried to restart the system with a voice command.
"J.E.M., boot."
There was no response.
"Damn it."
The word slipped out before he could stop himself, and it matched the situation better than he wanted to admit. Most of the ship functions relied on J.E.M., including internal sensors, door controls, and automated checks that kept everything running safely.
Manual overrides were available, but they worked slowly and required constant effort, and in his current condition he did not have the time or strength to rely on them. He doubted himself if he could even walk properly.
Aiden body was badly hurt, and every movement sent sharp aches and deep stiffness through his muscles, but stopping was not an option he could afford.
Managing the ship on his own like this was already pushing his limits, and he knew it would only get worse the longer J.E.M. remained offline.
He forced himself to move anyway.
Clenching his teeth, he rerouted power by hand, leaning close to the open panel as his fingers fumbled with exposed connections that refused to cooperate. His hands shook from pain and fatigue, and sweat gathered along his brow as he worked through it.
After a few failed attempts, he grabbed a spare battery pack and jammed it into the AI port, locking it in place with more force than precision and securing it as best he could.
The display sputtered and flickered before lighting up.
[ENVIRONMENT STATUS: UNKNOWN]
[POWER LEVEL: CRITICAL]
[PROTOCOL ACCESS: RESTRICTED]
The screen dimmed, flickered once more, and then went dark again.
Aiden swore under his breath as frustration set in, his jaw tightening while he pulled his hand away from the panel. Whatever state J.E.M. was in, it was clearly not enough to help him, and waiting for it to recover on its own was not an option.
He shifted his focus to the communications panel and brought it online with slow, careful movements. This system was meant to reach far beyond the ship, designed to send and receive signals across deep space, and it was now his only link to anything outside the wreck.
Aiden started with a wide sweep, sending out an open distress signal in every direction the damaged system could manage. When no response came, he adjusted the settings and narrowed the transmission, concentrating the signal and repeating the call as steadily as possible. Each attempt pushed the strained systems a little further, but the result stayed the same.
As a last measure, he activated the emergency ping, a priority beacon designed to demand attention from anything capable of receiving it.
The panel remained silent.
[NO SIGNAL DETECTED]
Aiden kept staring at the display, unease settling in as the message stayed the same. The result did not make sense to him at all, because the communication system was designed to listen across several light-years, and in all his training and experience it had never returned nothing.
Before he could think any further, his stomach growled loudly, the sound cutting through the quiet control room. He winced slightly as the reminder hit him. He had not eaten since before the crash, and his body was clearly done waiting.
His hands shook when he tried to steady them, his head felt heavy, and exhaustion clung to him no matter how carefully he moved. His body was trying to recover from the damage, but without food it had nothing left to work with.
He pushed himself upright and half walked, half dragged his way toward a nearby storage locker. Every step felt heavier than the last, and pain flared along his ribs as he leaned against the wall to keep from falling. When he forced the locker open, he found a strip of intact rations shoved behind a bent panel, still sealed and marked as safe.
Relief washed over him.
He tore one open right away. The nutrient paste inside was thick and bitter, designed to pack as much energy as possible into a small tube. He did not slow down or taste it, instead squeezing the contents into his mouth and swallowing in one motion.
He grabbed three more and stuffed them into his pocket. If he needed to move again later, he knew he would not have the strength to come back for supplies.
After that, he slid down the wall and sat on the floor, letting his back rest against the cold metal.
The control room around him was in rough shape. Panels were cracked or dark, wires hung loose from broken housings, and the air still smelled faintly of smoke and overheated metal. He opened another tube and ate more slowly this time, his eyes moving across the damage as if the ship might somehow explain itself if he looked long enough.
When the food settled, he forced himself to think.
He did not need a perfect plan.
He just needed to figure out the next steps.
Exit the ship > Assess external conditions > Understand what happened > Decide what came next.
It wasn't really much of a plan per se. But it really was the most efficient one he could think of right now.
His gaze drifted toward the viewport.
It was not a normal window, but a reinforced viewing port built to survive impacts, radiation exposure, and debris storms, with an armored shutter meant to seal the glass completely when needed. The shutter was damaged now, cracked along one edge and jammed in its frame, stuck in an awkward position between open and closed.
Aiden reached for the handle and pulled.
The metal refused to move, scraping loudly as it resisted him. Pain shot through his shoulder, and he sucked in a sharp breath as he tightened his grip. He shifted his stance, planted his feet, and leaned into it, using his body weight to force the mechanism to respond.
"Haah... ahhhh... haaaa..."
The sound tore out of him as the shutter finally gave way. It lurched forward with a harsh grind, and Aiden stumbled into the frame, pressing his forearm against the metal as he paused to catch his breath. His muscles shook from the effort, and the pain lingered as a dull throb that refused to fade.
Light spilled in through the opening, brighter than he expected. He forced the shutter wider just enough to see outside and squinted as his eyes adjusted. His heart picked up as he scanned the surroundings, searching for drifting debris, a nearby star, or any sign of immediate danger that could explain the state of the ship.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze.
Then he froze.
There was no space beyond the hull.
There was no endless black, no scattered stars, and no distant sun casting pale light across drifting wreckage.
There was open sky.
A wide landscape stretched out beyond the ship, dark and still under the cover of night. The ground rolled away in long, uneven stretches filled with grass and unfamiliar plants, their shapes only partly visible in the low light. Nothing looked manicured or artificial.
Everything grew freely, wild and untouched.
Trees rose across the land in strange, uneven forms, tall but broken in silhouette. Where the moonlight touched them, their surfaces looked smooth and segmented, nothing like bark or wood he recognized. Some stood stiff and layered, like thick plates stacked together, while others bent and curved at angles that felt wrong.
Aiden stared through the viewing port, his thoughts slowing as his mind tried to make sense of what lay in front of him.
This was wrong.
He remembered space without any doubt, the stars scattered across endless black and the ship moving smoothly on course before everything suddenly went wrong.
So the horizon in front of him made no sense.
Neither did the movement of leaves stirred by wind.
His chest tightened as he slowly lifted his gaze upward, moving carefully, almost cautiously, as if rushing the motion might make the truth harder to accept.
Two moons hung above the landscape, fixed in the dark sky.
One was pale and distant, the other larger and tinted with color, both far too defined and far too close to be dismissed as tricks of light or lingering disorientation.
Behind him, the ship creaked softly as cooling metal shifted under stress, the sound small and hollow compared to the silent world outside.
His throat tightened as the realization fully took hold.
"This... where the hell am I?"