Through the Distant Universe

I sat amidst the wreckage, leaning against a rusted bulkhead, each breath a torment. My breathing rasped through the makeshift mask, like corroded bellows, and the pain from my broken ribs echoed through every joint. The warehouse surrounded me—vast, gloomy, with ceilings lost in impenetrable shadows, where only the faint beam of my flashlight caught ghostly silhouettes of debris. Dust danced in that light, like the forgotten souls of the dead, and the air was thick with a pungent, acrid stench of decay and industrial chemicals that churned my stomach. My left ankle throbbed with every heartbeat, each step like a hammer striking exposed bone, and my cracked ribs ached with the slightest movement, threatening to pierce a lung. Walk 120 kilometers in this condition? It wasn't just beyond possible—it was beyond survival.

I knew I couldn't manage without drastic help. Not like this.

With trembling, weakened hands, I activated the Portable Navigation-Command Node (PNCN) I'd managed to strap to my wrist with scraps of wire. Its screen flickered faintly, casting a pale, mechanical glow into the absolute darkness, like the only thread tying me to reality.

"Identification: successful. Status parameters: critical. How may I assist in continuing the 'Survival' protocol?" came the cold, emotionless voice of the AI, devoid of any inflection found in living beings.

I swallowed, my throat parched as if I'd been in a desert for a millennium.

"I need… something to keep moving. My leg's broken, ribs too. I can't cover the distance in this state. The probability of completing the task is near zero," I said grimly.

"Analyzing request. Enhanced scanning precision required to assess structural damage to the subject and surrounding environment. Please initiate 'Visual Calibration' procedure. Raise the limb with the PNCU above head level," the AI responded, its voice mechanically precise.

I did as it said, lifting my right arm with the PNCN as high as I could, every muscle groaning under the strain. After a moment, a bright scanning beam shot from the device, far more intense this time, sweeping over my body, then my gear, and finally scanning every centimeter of the warehouse, as if creating a three-dimensional model of the entire space.

After a brief but palpable pause, during which I could almost feel the data being processed within the device, the AI added:

"Analysis complete. Damage identified: confirmed. Mobility prognosis: 0.003% without intervention. Recommendation: construct a simple mechanical exoskeleton to support the body and reduce axial load on damaged areas. This will improve mobility by 67% and reduce pain intensity by 45%."

I froze, stunned. An exoskeleton? My father's robotics lectures flashed through my mind—complex machines with servos, optical sensors, and neural interfaces. But here, amidst rust and rubble, in this post-apocalyptic crypt, it seemed impossible, a cruel joke. A "simple mechanical exoskeleton"? In my condition, even assembling a stool would be a feat.

"Do you have schematics or assembly protocols?" I asked, my voice a mix of despair, a faint spark of hope, and deep skepticism.

"Access to local PNCN database: confirmed. Schematics available for basic mechanical exoskeleton, model 'PSE-01,' category 'Simplified Field.' Displaying now," the AI replied.

A hologram flickered to life above the PNCU: a translucent framework with supports for legs, pelvis, and spine. No wires, no batteries, no complex electronics—just reinforced metal, hinges, fasteners, and shock-absorbing elements. Simple. Primitive. But, strangely, feasible. If not for one critical detail.

A wave of hunger and thirst hit me with doubled force, piercing my brain. I'd almost forgotten them, overwhelmed by pain and hopelessness. I had no idea how long I'd been here, drinking only rusty water and "eating" the universe's energy, inhaling it with the tainted air. Funny… I hadn't needed to relieve myself once.

"Is there really no other option?" I croaked, barely suppressing a cough. "In my current physical state, I can't carry an exoskeleton too. My strength is gone."

The AI was silent for a few seconds, its processor seemingly sifting through millions of options, then responded unexpectedly, its voice as flat as a weather report:

"Discrepancy detected in inventory data. In your gear, within a shielded compartment of your backpack, there is an emergency survival kit, class 'Military,' type 'Extreme-Longterm.' It contains a portable water recycler and three high-calorie food briquettes. These resources were not identified in the initial scan due to the packaging's shielding."

I lunged for the backpack, nearly tearing its tattered straps, and pulled out a strange, hermetically sealed cylinder and three neatly packed rectangles I'd taken from a dead soldier's body. My heart raced. Hope.

I tore open one of the packages, revealing a dense, white brick the size of my palm.

"This… is definitely safe to eat?" I asked, eyeing the monolith skeptically.

"Confirmed. This is a food briquette, an emergency ration for long-term storage. Safe for consumption. Given your current state of extreme depletion, consume in small portions due to its ultra-high caloric content and nutrient density. Rapid consumption may cause adverse bodily reactions."

I cautiously bit into the briquette. It was almost like biting a brick—hard, odorless, though it had been sitting here for half a millennium. I chewed, tasting nothing at first, utterly neutral, but the longer it stayed in my mouth, the more it melted into a thick, oily paste. I swallowed the first piece, and a shudder ran through me—not from pain, but from the sensation of food, the first in… who knows how many days?

I took another small bite, chewing thoroughly, feeling warmth slowly spread through my esophagus, and tucked the briquette back into its packaging. I needed to ration it, and I didn't want to risk digestive issues in this hellhole.

I turned back to… the AI, I assumed.

"But still, is there any tech here I could use to reach the flagship? Anything that could move?"

"Negative. Analysis of the frigate's wreckage indicates critical damage to key propulsion and energy systems. Probability of finding functional transport: 0.008%. Additionally, you lack resources to fuel or power it. However, you possess two fully charged 'EMEB-17' power cells, which, per calculations, are sufficient to power the exoskeleton's force circuit for the entire journey to the flagship 'Eternal Wrath,'" the program stated.

I pulled out one of the two compact power cells I'd found on the commander's belt. It looked like a matte black brick, cold and heavy in my hand.

"And these two little boxes will be enough for what, exactly?" My voice dripped with skepticism.

"For creating a basic force circuit to power the exoskeleton's movement. You have power sources, field tools, and suitable construction materials in this warehouse. My system memory contains the necessary data to train you in effective use of the field multitool, multifunctional arc welder, and basic engineering assembly skills," the AI said, and the holographic projection displayed two icons: one highlighting my cutter, the other pointing to two compact devices resembling wrenches near my backpack—one from the survival kit, the other I must have picked up earlier and forgotten.

I mulled it over for a few seconds, processing the information. My body screamed in pain, but my brain, fueled by the fresh surge of energy, was working faster. Hope, however faint, flickered to life.

"What do I need to do?" I finally said, a hint of resolve creeping into my voice.

***

I laid out the tools before me on the dusty floor. My hands trembled like aspen leaves in an icy wind, but I forced myself to focus, ignoring the pulsing pain in my temples. First, I grabbed the plasma cutter. Despite its futuristic name, the tool was fairly straightforward: a powerful energy source, three emitters, and a concentrator. The AI explained: in one mode, it generated three parallel beams capable of burning through thick armor; in another, a simultaneous discharge created a thin cutting line that could slice through molecular bonds. This wasn't just a laser; it was closer to plasma, judging by how it melted the air, scorching my lungs without proper protection.

The AI added:

"The field multitool is a versatile instrument equipped with built-in cutters, screwdrivers, pliers, and a small hydraulic press, ideal for precision work and component extraction. The multifunctional arc welder, or your cutter, in welding mode uses plasma stream modulation to join metal surfaces via a controlled arc, ensuring precise and durable connections in field conditions. It also functions as a plasma cutter for material disassembly."

I started with the mask. I had two respirators. One was a simple mouth-only model: its filters seemed functional, but the rest was falling apart, with brittle, crumbling tubes. The other was a full-face mask with reinforced glass, marred by a spiderweb crack, its filters long rotted into dust, leaving empty shells. But the frame was intact, and miraculously, the connectors matched.

Using the multitool's precision cutters, I carefully extracted the intact filters from the first respirator and fitted them into the second's slots, ensuring a tight seal. I sealed the air channel meticulously with polymer sealant found in a mangled cargo crate, applying it layer by layer, smoothing it with my fingers to eliminate gaps. The crack in the reinforced glass, which could have cost me my sight, I covered with a fragment of armor plate—crudely cut with jagged edges, but it held. I secured it with aluminum bands from a broken container and sturdy latches salvaged from dead soldiers' armor. Inside, I added a layer of spare fabric from my clothing, pressing it tightly against the mask's contours. When I put it on, my lungs burned a little less, and breathing felt less torturous, as if the air had suddenly become slightly cleaner. Only now did I realize how dire things had been before. How deeply this world had tried to choke me.

"Sufficient resources are available in the warehouse to create a full electronic exoskeleton. Use remnants of cargo systems, robots, and drones for components," the AI's mechanical voice intoned, and the hologram before my eyes shifted, displaying a more complex but still rugged design laced with glowing force circuits.

I got to work. First, the frame. My gaze swept over the heaps of twisted metal, and the AI instantly highlighted potential components on the hologram: "Detected high-strength actuators and limb segments from heavy cargo drones and service robots. Recommended for use as the basis for legs and the main exoskeleton contour. They contain integrated servos and joints." Exactly what I needed. I found two massive, though bent, robotic limbs from a transport mech. They were sturdy, articulated, and crucially, housed powerful servos, merely jammed and coated in centuries of rust.

Using my modified cutter—my arc welder—I carefully separated these segments from the surrounding junk, melting attachment points with surgical precision to avoid damaging internal mechanisms. The AI provided constant instructions: "Cleaning and lubrication of internal mechanisms required. Use the multitool's cleaning mode to unjam servos and ensure smooth operation." I cleaned and worked them loose, feeling tiny metal particles scatter to the floor as the once-stuck mechanisms began to move smoothly.

Then I adapted them to human anatomy. The multitool became indispensable. I used its cutters and pliers to remove excess armor plates from the limbs, screwdrivers to open service hatches for wiring access. I stripped contact groups, checked microchip integrity, and adjusted each joint. Cable by cable, I pulled copper strands from charred wire bundles, connecting the servos of each robotic leg to where the power cell would sit. This wasn't just mechanical assembly; it was integration, grafting foreign but functional parts into a new, cohesive system.

"Use the drones' internal electrical circuits to form the power bus. Voltage control modules and basic logic boards are needed to activate servos," the AI continued, projecting clear, complex connection schematics. This was the hardest part. I dove into piles of broken drones and service robots, methodically disassembling them for intact wiring and surviving chips. I found charred boards, carefully desoldered needed components, and tested them with the multitool's integrated multimeter. Each intact voltage control module, each surviving transistor, was worth its weight in gold. Many were damaged, but I scavenged enough working parts to form basic logic circuits and regulators to convert and distribute power to the servos.

The two power cells I had were compact, heavy, and radiated faint warmth, signaling their readiness. Now I had to figure out how to secure and connect them to evenly distribute power across the structure without causing overheating or short circuits. I welded them to the exoskeleton's waist frame using my crude but effective arc welder, crafting separate shielded compartments from thick steel plates cut from a cargo container's hull. This was critical for both protection and weight balance. From them, I ran thick, multi-strand cables along the frame's support beams, insulating each wire with scraps of rubber casing from communication lines and securing them with found clamps. Every contact was cleaned with the multitool and soldered carefully to minimize energy loss and prevent sparking. The process was slow, meticulous, but each completed circuit filled me with a sense of control over this pile of metal, transforming it into something alive and dangerous.

As I worked, the exoskeleton ceased to be just a collection of rusted pipes. It took on the form of a predator, a mechanical frame capable of movement. Each connected servo, each activated power node, each test activation—accompanied by hums and clicks—instilled confidence.

"You possess an H.ARM Mk5 exoskeleton control chip from the remains of a fallen exo-warrior," the AI said, and the hologram flashed an image of the chip I'd taken from the massive robot. "This is a high-efficiency neural processor designed to convert bioelectric brain impulses into command signals for the exoskeleton."

I recalled the dead body in charred armor. I hadn't been wrong to take it.

"Despite your lack of direct bioport implants," the AI continued, "the chip's functionality can be integrated via an external reader node. Such a node is likely part of the cargo system control terminal in the warehouse's central sector. It will take the form of a specialized helmet worn on the head, capable of converting brain impulses into control signals for the exoskeleton when paired with the chip. This will allow intuitive control of the complex machine without bulky controllers."

Adrenaline surged through me. The idea of controlling the exoskeleton with my thoughts was incredible. It would give me an edge. So, I needed to find this "helmet." The AI confirmed it was likely in the cargo system control terminal, somewhere in the central sector.

I moved toward the old, hulking terminal rising amid the debris like a fossilized giant. It was coated in layers of dust and cobwebs, its base entangled with dozens of thick, twisted cables like the tentacles of a dead octopus. Up close, I spotted what I needed: on one of the panels, among countless connectors and indicators, rested a specialized helmet. It was massive, studded with sensors and ports, with a tangle of thick, braided cables snaking into the terminal's depths.

"Object identified: neurointerface helmet, model 'PSI-07,' designed for direct biometric interaction with heavy cargo systems and machines," the AI's voice intoned. "Requires careful disassembly. Disconnect the main power and data cables using the multitool."

I set to work. With the multitool, I carefully cut through the thick cables, detaching connectors that seemed fused to the panels by time. Some I unscrewed, others I yanked free, breaking ancient locks. The task demanded precision and patience to avoid damaging the helmet or its internal circuits. Finally, it was in my hands—heavy, cold, with dimly glinting sensors and severed cable ends.

"Next step: integrate the chip and adapt the helmet to the existing respirator mask," the AI instructed. "The neural processor must be installed in the helmet's central slot. The mask will serve as a protective and mounting frame, ensuring proper sensor positioning and stability on the head."

My already modified respirator mask was about to get even more complex. I started upgrading it. First, I carefully cut a section of the mask's frontal panel to create a slot for the helmet. Then, using my arc welder, I attached several mounts to the mask's frame to securely hold the neurointerface helmet on top.

The hardest part was the wiring. The AI projected schematics showing which of the helmet's severed cables to connect to the mask and exoskeleton. I pulled thin copper strands from charred wire bundles, using the multitool to strip contacts and perform delicate soldering. Every wire, every contact was critical—they would transmit my mental commands directly to the servos. From helmet to mask, from mask to the exoskeleton's power circuit, I ran new cables, insulating them with rubber scraps and fabric. The mask, once merely a shield against toxic air, became the central control hub.

On me was the mask, reinforced with fragments of old helmets that once shielded the faces of long-dead warriors. Over the main structure, I layered pieces of drone armor and shielding panels. I strengthened the frontal arc and side elements, embedding remnants of reinforced segments, and fortified the glass with an internal titanium grid torn from a filter. Over it all, I added layers of shattered protective shields, secured with plastic ties and metal loops to hold together and absorb impacts. The helmet now resembled a hybrid of a combat capsuleer's gear and an executioner's mask: a wide visor, sealed inside with layers of film and tinted plastic, covered by a heavy shield I'd cut from an old drone's plating. The side filters were extended outward, connected to the main mask by tubes like veins to a heart.

My armor wasn't just protective gear—it was a living testament to a desperate will to survive, cobbled together from everything I could scavenge in this hell. The core was formed by massive armor plates from cargo robots—heavy but incredibly durable, they shielded my torso, back, and hips.

For limbs and less critical areas, I used fragments of drone reactive plating and, most crucially, armor scraps from fallen soldiers. From every body I found in the warehouse, I salvaged intact segments: Kevlar inserts, titanium plates, parts of composite vests. They were scratched, some punctured, but still functional. I used these to fill gaps between the heavy robotic plates, creating layered, albeit asymmetrical, protection. Bent plates from other robots' hulls, still bearing claw marks, were fitted and welded where extra reinforcement was needed.

Inside each armor piece, I stuffed foam and fabric padding torn from anything soft to cushion impacts and dampen noise from my movements. These layers, though caked with dirt and dust, provided basic comfort and shock absorption. Over the entire structure, I sewed pouches from the tattered unloading systems of dead soldiers—worn but sturdy, they now held tools, supplies, small finds, and maybe ammunition if I ever found any. A harness of old straps and cables secured everything in place. On the back, I welded a mounting beam to hook my backpack, a rolled cloak, or a spare compartment if I ever got lucky enough to find one. It was asymmetrical, not by regulation, not by blueprint. But it worked. It held. That was enough.

Special attention went to my rib. My broken rib, reminding me of itself with every breath. I pulled a flexible armored plate from a drone—it bent but could take a hit, like a promise. I secured it along the left side of my chest, adding a layer of cushioning material torn from a protective suit's lining. Over it, I placed a rigid brace: a pipe with a carved-out section, like it had been bitten, and a tension strap running over my shoulder. The tension was manually adjustable—a simple system with a seatbelt buckle and a lock from a piece of automation. Overtighten, and it'd break bone. Too loose, and it wouldn't hold shape. Every millimeter mattered.

Among my gear, I had one more multitool, battered but functional.

"Additional tool for the left limb. Can be integrated into the exoskeleton for enhanced functionality," the AI suggested promptly. It made sense. My right hand was for the cutter/welder, but my left could be versatile.

I took the second multitool. It was worn, its handle cracked, but the mechanisms worked. Using leftover mounts and scraps of old plating, I secured it to the outer side of my left arm, positioning the working end forward with blades and tools easily accessible. Following the AI's instructions, I opened its casing, located the control and power contacts.

"Connect contacts A3 and B7 to the exoskeleton's control bus," the AI said, projecting a schematic directly onto my arm. I ran thin cables from the multitool to the nearest power node on the exoskeleton, soldering each wire carefully and insulating the connections.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my trembling hands. The critical moment. Following the AI's precise instructions, I carefully inserted the neurointerface chip into its designated slot in the heart of the helmet mounted on the mask. A soft click confirmed its secure fit. Then I took the two compact, heavy batteries, wrapped them in insulating tape, and slotted them into the shielded compartments on the exoskeleton's waist, right in the power bays. The latches snapped shut with a dull thud.

"All key components in place," the AI announced, and bright blue data streams raced along the exoskeleton's power lines on the holographic projection. "Initiating final calibration and system tuning. The process will take several minutes. Avoid sudden movements."

For a moment, the warehouse fell silent, broken only by distant creaks and my own ragged breathing. Then came a soft hum, followed by clicks and a low buzz. The exoskeleton's servos came to life, as if waking from a long slumber, and a faint vibration rippled through my body. The neurointerface helmet's sensors glowed green, and an indicator appeared on the edge of my visor: "SYSTEM READY. AWAITING COMMANDS."

I took a tentative step. The exoskeleton's powerful legs moved with me, supporting every kilogram of my weight with an ease that felt miraculous. The pain in my rib was still there, but distant, dulled by the machine's power, now a part of me. I moved my left arm, and the integrated multitool shifted slightly, ready for action. It was an incredible feeling—not just wearing armor, but being it. Words couldn't describe it.

The world had tried to choke me, but I refused to let it. I'd chosen my path, found my purpose. A fire burned within me, fanned by desperation and the will to survive.

To hell with whoever or whatever sent me here—I wouldn't give up so easily. I'd get out of this place, find a way back home.

I checked my gear one last time and was finally, truly ready. It was time to move.