Through the Distant Universe

I awaken with a metallic taste in my mouth and a crushing weight on my chest, as if someone placed a steel slab on me and heaped filth atop it. The remnants of sleep slip away like rusted water through my fingers. My head throbs, my breathing a creaking bellows, each attempt to inhale igniting a burning sensation in my lungs. The antidote helped… but it didn't cure. It granted a delay, not salvation. I am still dying. Just more slowly.

I open my eyes. The hull's walls remain unchanged—rotted metal, stained with blotches, steeped in fetid air. Perhaps only I have inched closer to death. I drink the last drops from the second canteen—one gulp, two. That's all. Empty. There's no more water.

Hunger gnaws within, but for now, it's not the primary concern. Thirst is. The poison is. The lack of purpose is.

I gather my belongings: rucksack, cutter, mask, knife, flares, empty canteen, cloak. Each item is not a burden but the sole argument for why I'm not yet a corpse. I rise with effort, limping, suppressing a cough that feels as though it expels the contagion festering in my chest. But I know it's not enough. The poison is deeper. It continues to devour me from within.

Keep going. Just keep going. Don't stop.

I step into the corridor. The metal groans beneath my feet. The world still presses on my shoulders, but I take a step. Then another. Forward.

Where to—I don't know.

Increasingly, I wonder: what if the others landed in paradise? The kind from foolish stories—with systems, interfaces, a voice saying, "Welcome, hero, here's your starting sword." Perhaps someone is fighting monsters in clean air, healthy, strong, brimming with energy. And me? I'm wasting away in a cosmic junkyard, breathing poison, scavenging like a rat in a rusted coffin.

Why? What did I do wrong? Why am I here while they're there?

You know why, Adam. Because you're not one of them. Because you're different. Real.

I freeze. My pulse races. My heart pounds an alien rhythm. My head begins to spin.

Then—footsteps. Behind me. Quick. Foreign.

I turn—nothing. Only dust swirling in the flashlight's beam.

Well done. Now breathe. Forward. Your path is there. You'll manage.

I rise. I see a corridor. A sign—"STORAGE G…" A blockage. But beyond it—a draft.

I move. Weakly, but I move. As long as I have breath, the path continues.

I stop, assessing the blockage. My strength is nearly gone, my body trembles with weakness, but the draft… it could mean an exit, or something else. Something useful.

I make a decision. Clenching my teeth against the pain, I begin clearing the debris. I use a pipe fragment as a lever, prying at chunks of metal, dragging them aside. With the cutter, I melt the rusted joints binding the wreckage, careful not to collapse it on myself.

It takes an eternity and nearly all my strength. Sweat pours off me, I lose balance several times, nearly falling. But the passage gradually widens.

Finally, I squeeze through.

Inside is a vast warehouse. Shelves and containers, many gutted or rotted, some collapsed or melted. A vile stench of soot and mold, mixed with chemicals, assaults my senses. It's darker here; the flashlight carves out crates, stains on the walls, heaps of debris.

I look around, careful not to step on anything slick or sharp. The warehouse is immense, most of it reduced to a dump. But I don't lose hope. I start opening crates.

Ninety percent are useless: rotted, melted, filled with dust, rust, plastic shards, unidentifiable fragments. I'm losing hope when I stumble upon a crate in the farthest corner. It's less damaged than the others.

Heart pounding, I open it. Inside—a toolkit: screwdrivers, pliers, possibly a "field multi-tool" by its appearance, worn but usable.

I exhale in relief. This is what I needed to repair equipment more precisely, beyond just hacking with the cutter. With these tools, I have a chance to fix surviving gear, maybe even find a way to contact other survivors—if any exist.

A faint spark of hope ignites within me. I don't yet know what lies ahead, but now I have something to fight with.

Moving deeper into the warehouse, I come across a door—or what's left of it. It's been torn from its hinges by some monstrous force, its metal fragments scattered nearby, crumpled like paper. Beyond it—a room.

The flashlight's beam barely reveals the extent of the devastation. Shelves toppled, containers gutted, and everywhere… corpses. Many.

I freeze at the threshold, nausea rising. The signs suggest people—and perhaps not only people—were devoured alive.

Bodies bear bite marks. Severed limbs lie in unnatural poses. Walls are smeared with dried blood, dark stains forming nightmarish patterns. Bones are scattered across the floor, mingled with mangled armor and exoskeletal fragments, some clearly inhuman.

Shock grips me first. The revulsion is so intense it twists my stomach. I swallow, barely suppressing the urge to vomit. The air reeks of rot, blood, and something sweet and cloying, making it worse.

But I force myself to take another step. Then another. I must stay composed. There could be something vital here—clues, hints about what happened, anything to help me survive.

In one corner, near a body—or what remains of it, likely an officer or technician by the uniform and gear—I find a packet. Inside is a mechanical device.

It's a plastic-metal box with dim indicators and multiple buttons, solid to the touch, as if built to last centuries.

I handle it cautiously, examining it, trying to understand its function. I press a button by accident.

The device springs to life. Indicators flash, a hiss precedes a voice—my native language, pure and familiar.

"This is Lieutenant… [name garbled]… final message. We did everything we could. God… if anyone hears this… know we didn't surrender…"

The voice trembles, breaks. Explosions and crashes echo in the background.

"Our battle in space… it was a slaughter. They came in waves, too many. We destroyed their ships by the hundreds, but they kept coming, like locusts. Our pilots rammed them to buy a second's time. But even Eternal Wrath couldn't stop them all—it crashed on this cursed planet… yet, from the flashes and rumbles at night, its guns still fire, I don't know for how long…"

"Here, on the surface… it wasn't a battle, it was annihilation. They poisoned us with chemicals, flesh-dissolving organics… and those creatures. They tear armor from bodies, snap bones like matchsticks. Yet our people held on—bayonets, rifle butts, teeth ripping at their throats. Medics dragged the wounded under fire, signalers sent coordinates until their last breath, engineers repaired broken weapons while bleeding out…"

Static crackles. The lieutenant's voice rises to a scream.

"We were betrayed! They promised peace, prosperity! I was among those who warned—fight to the end, not play at humanism and pacifism! But they said it was for the greater good, to avoid war… Too late. They united against us. They burned our colonies, slaughtered billions. And here we are, on this godforsaken planet, dying so they can sip their damned cocktails and spin tales of peace!"

The voice breaks, sinking to a whisper, raw with pain and rage.

"And yet, how fate turned… Why were we brought here? The higher-ups spoke of excavations, a pit reaching the planet's core, perhaps. A weapon maybe? It doesn't matter now."

"If you hear this… if any of ours hear this, anyone at all… don't seek vengeance. Don't waste your lives. Just… remember us. Remember how we fought. And if you know how… pray. For us, for yourselves. They're here. They're breaking in… I don't want…"

Fragments of phrases, screams, muffled shots, screeching metal, dying gasps. Then silence.

The recording ends.

I stand, stunned. I'm not just in a wreck. I'm in a graveyard—a civilization that spoke my language, resembled me, and lost this war. I'm the last visitor, arriving too late to do anything.

Their voices echo in my head, mingling with the drip of liquid and the wail of wind through rotted bulkheads. The world constricts, a crypt. Every rustle, every shadow feels like a sinister omen. I can't shake the thought that I'm next.

Terror surges anew. The corpses aren't just remains—they're warnings. My future. Despair grips me, cold and all-consuming. There's no hope. I'm doomed.

I try to imagine their final moments—fear, pain, despair. They fought, died, and no one came. Their sacrifice was futile, their voices mere echoes in an empty tomb. I'm alone among them, with only a ghostly hope of salvation.

But hope fades with each second. I stare at the device, its flickering lights and buttons—a cry from the past, unanswered, in my language, reminding me of a lost home, a world I'll never see again.

Despair deepens. I no longer believe I'll escape. I'm fated to rot here, forgotten, unneeded.

Then rage erupts—impotent, animalistic fury at my fate, this cursed world, everything that brought me here. I won't surrender. I won't lie down and wait for death. I must act.

In a burst of anger, I hurl the device to the floor. It hits the rusted metal with a dull thud, pieces breaking off. I choke on rage and disappointment.

But my eyes catch something odd. Behind the shattered cover, a power cell—familiar, matching the rectangular device I found near the officer's body.

A faint ray of hope pierces me. Perhaps this isn't the end?

I retrieve the rectangular device, remove its cover, and insert the cell. It hums to life, a bright light scanning me, like in some game. Words appear on the screen:

"Initializing Portable Navigation-Command Node (PNCN)."

A voice speaks—neither male nor female, precise, built to command for the dead.

"Subject scan complete. Global network connection: failed. Local network: successful."

"Time calibration: 563 years, 4 months, 12 days since last activation."

"Tissue signature authentication: Homo sapiens genome match. Cyber-synthesis: none. Biomodifications: none. Condition: pre-lethal."

My breath catches. Then, a dagger to the heart:

"Subject survival probability in current conditions: 4.2%."

A pause, then clarification:

"Without external navigation and directives, independent activity will lead to lethal outcome with 96.7% probability."

I clutch the panel's edges, as if it could keep me from falling. The voice continues, cold, relentless, but logical.

"Per protocol A.C.I.D.E.N.T (Aware Contextual Interface for Deployment and Emergency Tactical Networks), the subject is strongly advised to immediately follow active command directives. This is the optimal, verified survival strategy."

No plea. No suggestion. A statement. To live, I must obey this machine.

A hologram expands—a map, status, objectives.

"Command beacon: lost.

Flagship Eternal Wrath: 36% damage. Core signal: active."

A route traces across the screen.

"Distance to target: 121.9 km. Surface activity: extremely hazardous."

Then, as if pressing the final nail:

"Objective 1: Reach the command control point.

Objective 2: Activate protocol 'Factor D' per instruction 0736-HAVOC."

I stare at the lines, not understanding what "Factor D" is. But I feel it's not just a plan—it's a sentence.

The voice, quieter, summarizes:

"Subject's psycho-emotional state: critical. Supervisor intervention: impossible. All commands are autonomous. You are the only registered protocol carrier within range."

"Addendum: Flagship Eternal Wrath is damaged but functional. Analysis indicates significant systems and compartments remain intact. Reaching the flagship provides access to critical resources: medical supplies, provisions, energy cells, and potential global network reconnection via surviving external communication systems. Deviation from the designated route will reduce survival probability to zero. The choice is yours."

I stand for several minutes, silent, breathing heavily. I stare at the hologram—the thin route line stretching into the wasteland's core. 121.9 kilometers. Hell upon hell, poisons upon poisons, monsters amid wreckage. One step, and I'm back in this fetid meat grinder. But…

I have a path, a purpose.

I don't care where it came from or why.

It's enough.

I stow the device, dimming the interface. The screen fades, but a navigation marker glows faintly in the corner. It's enough.

I return to the warehouse's center, to my rucksack. I sit, allowing myself a moment to sit, to breathe, to simply… be.

But no longer than a couple of seconds.

I must prepare.