Commander Ryan Hail had never liked silence. In his experience, silence usually meant something had gone catastrophically wrong, like when the ship's reactor coughed once, decided it had done enough work for the day, and then exploded spectacularly across orbit. The silence that followed was the kind that pressed on your skull, and made you aware of every little sound inside your own body. His breath rasped in his helmet. The faint hum of the emergency oxygen pack tried to sound reassuring, but mostly it sounded like a bored insect trapped in a jar. He drifted through the ruins of the orbital colony, surrounded by the glittering debris of what used to be humanity's proudest achievement. Now it looked more like a cosmic junkyard sail that had gone terribly wrong. Panels floated by him lazily. Shattered solar wings turned slowly, catching the pale light of the distant sun. The earth glimmered below, so heartbreakingly close he could trace the curves of the oceans, the faint lights of surviving cities flickering like dying candles. He tried to reach out, but his gloved hand just brushed the void. The radio was dead. His crew was gone. The last log message he'd heard before the communications array fried itself had been a scream and then static. Now it was just him and the endless cold. Ryan was considering the logistics of talking to himself for the sake of company. When a ripple passed through the darkness, not sound, not light, something subtler, like the shadow of a thought passing behind him. He spun flashlight cutting through drifting debris. Nothing. Then, just as he was about to mutter something unherooic, the shadow moved again, closer. This time, he raised his weapon. Out of the drifting mist came a figure, humanoid, tall, graceful, and very clearly not human. Her armor shimmerred like molten glass catching starlight, and her skin was a soft, luminous blue, as though someone had taken the color of twilight and decided it looked good on her. Her hair floated in the zero gravity like fine strands of silver, and her ears, long, elegant, tapering to delicate points, caught the faint light as she moved. Ryan blinked because apparently his brain hadn't updated its list of things that can exist lately. The figure tilted her head, studying him with eyes that glowed faintly like twin moons. When she spoke, her voice carried a rhythm that was neither metallic nor organic. It was music stretched into language. "I'll stand with you," she said. Ryan, whose adrenaline had decided to go into business for itself, stammered, "That's uh that's great. Fantastic, really. I didn't realize the company was hiring." Her brow furrowed. "Hiring." He cleared his throat, feeling ridiculous, even inside his helmet. "Never mind, just high." The alien woman studied him for a moment longer, then floated closer. He noticed the way her armor emitted faint pulses of light like a heartbeat made visible. She extended one gloved hand. Commander Ryan Hail, Earth Fleet. Who are you? He asked, voice steadier now. She blinked once slowly. I am Sarin of the car I guard. She paused. You are alive. That seems statistically unlikely. Ryan snorted. Yeah, well, I've always been an overachiever. Something like amusement flickered across her face. Your humor indicates head trauma, she said calmly. Should I administer sedation? He couldn't help but laugh. No thanks. My brain s weird enough as it is. They floated there for a moment. Two survivors suspended in the quiet wreckage of the stars. The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but curious, like two mismatched puzzle pieces trying to figure out if they belong to the same box. Sarin's gaze drifted to the spinning remains of the colony. This structure, it was once beautiful, she murmured. It was, Ryan said, until someone's reactor went supernova on my lunch break. Her expression softened. You have lost much. Yeah, he said, glancing at the charred whole fragments around them. You could say that. Lost the ship, the crew, my favorite mug. Your priorities are fascinating. It was a really good mug. She gave a sound that might have been laughter, low, melodic, like a chime vibrating in water. Ryan found himself oddly relieved by it. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed hearing another voice that wasn't his own. They drifted toward the nearest stable structure, a broken observation ring still spinning with lazy determination. Sarin moved gracefully, her boots magnetizing to the metal as she touched down. Ryan followed, clumsy by comparison, and immediately managed to trip over a floating cable. Gravity disagrees with me, he muttered. Gravity disagrees with everyone, she replied serenely. Inside the ring, faint emergency lights glowed. The console flickered weakly, struggling to stay alive. Sarin began scanning the systems with a small device that unfolded from her wrist, emitting soft pulses of blue light. What are you doing? He asked, assessing life support. Your oxygen is inefficient. Your design lacks redundancy. Your people build as if they do not expect to die. That's because we're optimistic, he said. Or foolish. Sometimes both keeps things interesting. The scanner beeped and Sarin frowned. The life support grid is failing. Within 7 hours, this entire section will depressurize. Ryan sighed. Great. Well, I was getting tired of breathing anyway. Her long ears twitched slightly, as though uncertain whether that was a joke or a confession. You are strange, she said at last. So, I've been told for a moment she just looked at him. Then, unexpectedly, she smiled. It was small but real, and it made something in Ryan's chest loosen, like a knot untangling. We will repair this place, she said. We I said I would stand with you. That has not changed. He raised an eyebrow. You sure about that? Humans come with a lot of maintenance. I have repaired worse creatures. Ouch. You always this charming. Only on days ending in why he laughed again, and the sound echoed softly through the hollow corridors. Outside the remains of the colony continued to drift through the quiet black. But now the silence seemed different. Not so final. Somewhere between the fragments of ruin and the endless stars, something fragile and new had begun to take shape. As they worked together to stabilize the power grid, Ryan caught himself glancing at her reflection in the glass. Her movements were precise, almost poetic, her luminous eyes fixed on the task. For someone who looked like she belonged in a myth, she sure knew her way around broken machinery. So Sarin, he said, breaking the silence. What brings you to our neck of the galaxy? She didn't look up. I was sent to guard the dying. He paused. Cheerful job description. It has its quiet moments, she replied dryly. Ryan chuckled. Well, congratulations. You're on the right planet. She tilted her head slightly. You laugh at the end of your world. Why? Because it's either that or panic. And panic doesn't fix oxygen leaks. Her gaze softened again. Perhaps your kind is not as foolish as I thought. Maybe, he said. Or maybe we're just too stubborn to know when we're finished. Sarin looked out the shattered viewport where the stars burned like distant promises. Then she turned to him and nodded once as if she'd made a decision. Then I will stand with you, commander, until the end. Ryan exhaled, a half smile tugging at his lips. No pressure. Then the alien woman's laugh echoed through the dark, bright and clear as starlight. And for the first time in a long while, Ryan Hail didn't feel quite so alone in the universe. The first thing Ryan learned about Sarin was that she had absolutely no patience for human tools. The second thing was that she had a sense of humor so dry it could desiccate an ocean. He watched as she knelt beside the shattered console, her long fingers dancing over alien instruments that pulsed faintly with light. His human toolkit floated beside her, untouched. "Your devices are primitive," she said at last, as though diagnosing a terminal illness. Ryan crossed his arms. "Hey, that's top-of-the-line Earth engineering right there. It took us decades to make tools that could both fix and electrocute you." She looked up, her luminous eyes blinking slowly. A remarkable dual function. The power grid hummed uncertainly around them, flickering like a nervous heartbeat. The greenhouse dome they had salvaged wasn't much, but it kept the oxygen steady and provided just enough artificial gravity for Ryan to feel like his stomach knew where down was. Sarin moved with graceful precision, her armor glimmering as she connected cables, reprogrammed circuits, and occasionally muttered in her own language, soft clicks and tones that reminded him of rainfall on metal. He tried to help, which mostly meant handing her tools and pretending he understood what she was doing. Every so often, she would glance at him and raise an eyebrow when he held something upside down. It's a wrench, he'd say defensively. We use them to fix things, not to conduct alien symphonies. Perhaps your people rely too much on brute force, she mused. And maybe yours rely too much on glowing gadgets and smug expressions. Her lips curved faintly. Then we balance each other. He opened his mouth to retort, but she had already turned back to her work. The faint hum of restored power filled the air and lights flickered on in a gentle wave. He had to admit the effect was beautiful, like watching a sleeping creature slowly wake. The air recycler kicked in, bringing with it a faint breeze that smelled of metal and ozone. Ryan leaned back against a bulkhead, breathing deeply. It wasn't fresh air, but after days of filtered oxygen, it might as well have been perfume. Sarin seemed less impressed. "Your atmosphere mix is inefficient. Too much nitrogen. We like to live dangerously," he said clearly. He chuckled, then his smile faded. "You really think there's no one else left? No survivors." Sarin didn't answer immediately. She straightened, her silver hair catching the light. Her long ears twitched slightly as though listening to something distant. The colony's network is in fragments. I detect no consistent human signals within 50,000 km, so that's a no. Then she looked at him, her gaze oddly gentle. Not all endings are failures, commander. Sometimes destruction clears the way for renewal. Ryan sighed. Yeah, sure. Try telling that to my crew. There was a silence between them that wasn't quite comfortable, but not painful either. Then, because dwelling on sadness had never been his strong suit, Ryan decided to change the subject. "So, Sarin, what exactly is a car guard? You're not here for tourism, I assume." She hesitated. "My people were once explorers," she said slowly. "Then protectors. Now we are witnesses. We watch dying worlds and record their last songs. Ryan blinked. That's bleak. It is necessary. Every civilization deserves to be remembered. He rubbed the back of his neck. Well, congratulations. You've officially found the most depressing job in the galaxy. She tilted her head, almost smiling. It is not without its rewards, such as, "I am standing here speaking to a human who insists on surviving in defiance of statistics. That is mildly entertaining." "Mildly, do not let it go to your head." He laughed, shaking his head. You've got a strange definition of humor, Sarin. I was trained in diplomacy, not comedy. Could have fooled me. They worked in silence for a while, broken only by the hum of power conduits and Ryan's occasional muttered curses whenever he bumped his head on a low beam. Sarin pretended not to notice, though the faint quirk of her mouth suggested otherwise. After several hours, the comm's panel sputtered to life. Static filled the air and for a brief exhilarating moment, Ryan thought he heard a voice. Then it dissolved into noise. He frowned and tapped the controls. Sarin moved beside him, her fingers brushing lightly across the screen. That was not random interference, she said softly. You heard it too, she nodded. The signal repeats at regular intervals. It may be an automated distress call. Ryan's pulse quickened. could be survivors or echoes, she said. Echoes, residual transmissions caught in the radiation field. Ghosts of what once was. He gave her a skeptical look. You believe in ghosts? Her gaze remained steady. In space, everything leaves a trace, even the dead. He tried to laugh it off, but her tone left him uneasy. Still, the thought of someone, anyone, out there, sparked a fragile hope. We should trace it, he said. If there's even a chance someone's alive, we can't ignore it. Sarin regarded him for a long moment, then nodded. Very well. But if this kills us, I will hold you personally responsible. Deal, he said with a grin. They set up the scanning array on what was left of the observation deck. The stars beyond looked sharp enough to cut, scattered like diamonds over black silk. Sarin calibrated the sensors, her expression unreadable. Ryan watched her from the corner of his eye. Despite the alien armor, the long ears, the glowing eyes, she seemed almost human in her focus. Her quiet determination. So, do all car look like you? He asked after a while. She didn't glance up. Define look like me. Tall, blue, slightly terrifying. She paused then finally looked at him. You find me terrifying a little. in a good way. Like a thunderstorm or an exam you didn't study for. That was not a compliment, was it? Mostly. Her lips twitched. You are very strange, Commander. Yeah, I've been getting that a lot lately. The scanner beeped, interrupting their banter. A faint pulse appeared on the display. A signal deep within the colony's core. Sarin's eyes narrowed. "That area is unstable." "Then we better hurry," he said, grabbing his toolkit. You intend to enter a collapsing section of the station for a sound that might be a ghost. When you put it that way, it sounds reckless. It is reckless. Welcome to humanity. She sighed, but there was a spark of amusement in her expression. If we die, I am haunting you. You'll have to get in line. They made their way through the half-lit corridors, passing through rooms filled with drifting debris and frozen water globules that shimmerred like tiny planets. Ryan's flashlight played over graffiti scrolled on a wall. We were here. The words felt heavier than gravity. Sarin paused to study it. Humans leave marks to prove existence, she said quietly. Yeah, Ryan murmured. We hate being forgotten. They reached the signal source, a sealed maintenance hatch. Sarin's tools hummed as she unlocked it, revealing a dark tunnel filled with tangles of wire and the faint blue glow of an energy core still pulsing deep inside. Ryan grinned. See, not ghosts, technology. Her expression softened. Perhaps or perhaps both. As they descended into the heart of the dying station, the signal grew louder, forming a rhythmic pattern that almost resembled music. Ryan felt a chill, not of fear, but of wonder. Sarin tilted her head, listening. Your world sings even as it falls. He gave her a sideways smile, told you were dramatic. Her laughter echoed softly in the narrow passage. The sound mingled with the hum of the dying machines. And for a moment, the ruins of humanity didn't seem quite so empty. The deeper they went, the more the air tasted like burnt metal and regret. The tunnels beneath the colony had been built for maintenance crews, never meant for survivors or explorers. Panels hung open like gaping wounds. Wires dripped sparks, and Ryan could hear the slow, rhythmic thud of something mechanical still alive somewhere below. The place had the mood of a graveyard that refused to admit it was dead. Sarin led the way, her armor glowing faintly with each careful step. The light traced the sharp lines of her ears and the soft glow of her skin. She looked ethereal, almost too beautiful for the ruin around them. Ryan, of course, was doing his best not to trip over his own boots. Remind me again why we're following the creepy ghost signal into the bowels of a half- deadad station? He asked. Because she replied without turning. You insisted. He frowned. Yeah, but I didn't think you'd actually agree. I assumed you'd call it illogical and give me one of your patented glares. Sarin's voice carried a trace of amusement. I considered it. Then I realized it would be entertaining to observe how long it takes before you fall into an open shaft. That's not very supportive, he muttered. I said I would stand with you, not babysit you. Ryan grinned despite himself. Her sarcasm had evolved in record time. It was either a sign of growing trust or a terrifying indicator that alien humor was contagious. They followed the pulsing blue light deeper into the tunnel. And as they went, the signal grew louder. Not sound exactly, but a resonance, a hum that vibrated through the metal underfoot. After what felt like hours, the tunnel opened into a vast chamber that had once been the station's reactor core. Now it was an ocean of flickering lights, fractured panels, and streams of coolant mist twisting like ghosts. At the center of it all hovered a sphere about the size of a shuttle pod made of translucent crystal and surrounded by orbiting shards of metal. Each shard pulsed with faint blue light in perfect rhythm to the signal. Ryan whistled softly. Well, that's either the prettiest thing I've ever seen or the last thing I'll see before dying horribly. Sarin approached the sphere, eyes narrowing. It is a memory core, she said. Designed to record, store, and transmit. Record what? Her gaze met his everything. She placed a hand on the surface. Instantly, the air shimmerred. Images erupted from the sphere like dream fragments, faces of humans, flashes of laughter, the bustling colony before the fall. Children chasing artificial butterflies through corridors. Engineers joking over steaming mugs. Someone playing a violin near a viewport filled with stars. Then the images darkened. The explosion, the fire, the screaming. Ryan felt his stomach twist. Sarin withdrew her hand. The sphere dimmed. This station remembers its death, she said softly. It replays the moment endlessly, like a song trapped in its final note. Ryan swallowed hard. Can we shut it off? If we do, we erase what remains of your people here. He hesitated. The thought of silencing those memories felt wrong. At the same time, the constant replay was haunting. It was as though the station itself refused to move on. He forced a smile. Well, I guess haunting memories are better company than none at all. Sarin turned to him, her luminous eyes thoughtful. You use humor as a shield, Commander. He shrugged. Works better than a plasma rifle sometimes. Her mouth curved into the faintest smile. I begin to understand your species. You laugh in the face of despair. We don't always laugh, he said. Sometimes we cry. Sometimes we eat terrible food and pretend it helps. She tilted her head, curious. Terrible food. Yeah, comfort food. Usually bad for you, always available, like instant noodles and regret. Sarin blinked. I have never eaten regret. You're not missing much. She gave a small, puzzled laugh, and the sound carried oddly in the empty chamber, bouncing off the metal walls like a bright ripple. For a moment, Ryan forgot about the ruins, the ghosts, and the silence. He just listened. Then the sphere pulsed again, stronger this time. The shards orbiting it sped up, spinning in chaotic patterns. A harsh tone filled the chamber, followed by a voice, faint, distorted, but unmistakably human. This is Captain Idris Vale of the colony ship Detilus. If anyone can hear this, please respond. Ryan froze. That's impossible. Vale's ship was destroyed weeks before the colony fell. Sarin stepped forward, adjusting her wrist device. The signal repeats, she said. It may be an automated distress message. No, Ryan said, shaking his head. That voice, it's live. I know it. Sarin looked doubtful. The probability of survival. Don't tell me the odds, he interrupted. I've never liked them anyway. She sighed. Your stubbornness is impressive, if inefficient. They followed the cables running from the core, tracing the signal source deeper into the labyrinth. As they walked, the station creaked and groaned around them, a sound like old bones settling. Ryan's flashlight flickered and he caught glimpses of faded graffiti. We tried, "Hold the line, stay human," he muttered under his breath. "I hate how everything inspirational looks depressing when it's covered in soot." Sarin gave him a sidelong glance. Your kind builds hope even in decay. That is both admirable and reckless. That's our brand, he said. They entered another chamber, smaller but dense with machinery. In the center lay a communications node half buried in debris, lights flickering faintly. Sarin crouched beside it and began clearing the rubble with delicate precision. Ryan helped, though his version of precision involved kicking things that didn't move fast enough. After several tense minutes, the console powered up with a weak hum. A grainy hologram flickered into existence above it. A man in a torn uniform face stre with soot. It was Captain Vale. If anyone finds this, know that we fought to the last. The evacuation failed. The core breach was faster than predicted. I'm leaving this message for whoever comes next. Don't let it end here. The image froze, then looped. Ryan stared at it for a long time. Sarin's voice was quiet. He knew no one would hear, yet he spoke anyway. That's what we do, Ryan said. Talk to the dark and hope someone's listening. She looked at him, the glow of her eyes softening. You truly are a curious species. He forced a grin. Curious keeps us alive. Well, mostly. Sometimes it kills us, but at least we go out wondering. Sarin's laugh was low and musical. You are unlike anyone I have known, commander. You say that like it's a compliment. It is mostly. They stayed there for a while, listening to the message play over and over until the static became part of the background hum of the dying station. Finally, Sarin said the reactor below still functions. If we rroot its power, we could restore communication. You mean we could call for help? Possibly or attract something else? Ryan smiled. Either way, Beats sitting around watching reruns of tragedy, she shook her head. You are incorraable. That's the nicest thing anyone said to me today. As they descended once more into the shadowed corridors, the pulse of the reactor growing louder, Ryan felt the first faint spark of something he hadn't felt in weeks. Hope. It was fragile, absurd, maybe even foolish, but it was his. And as Sarin walked beside him, her armor casting soft waves of blue light, he realized that in the endless dark, even foolish hope could shine like a star. Ryan never trusted things that hummed without permission. The reactor chamber was a cathedral of noise, every surface vibrating with low, anxious energy. Blue light pulsed across the walls in irregular beats, like the heartbeat of something ancient trying to remember it was alive. Sarin stood at the control interface, her long ears angled forward as she studied the readings. "The hum is unstable," she said, voice calm but tight. "The system is trying to restart itself." Ryan squinted at the console, which looked more like an alien harp than any human machine. "Can it do that? Restart on its own?" Sarin gave him a look that managed to express both pity and irritation. "No, commander. That is why it concerns me. He knelt beside her, peering at the flickering symbols scrolling across the screen. They pulsed in unfamiliar patterns, but even his untrained eyes could tell they weren't friendly. The energy signatures were looping in feedback, amplifying themselves instead of stabilizing. Ryan frowned. That looks bad. Sarin sighed. Your observational skills are extraordinary. I try, he said. They had rerooed power from the memory core to the communication system, hoping to contact any remaining fleet or ship. But something had changed when they activated the connection. The station seemed to wake up. Lights flickered across every level, and old systems long thought dead began to stir. Ryan wasn't sure if they had saved the place or poked something better left asleep. Sarin's device chirped softly as she adjusted the field parameters. If we can isolate the feedback loop, we may prevent a cascade failure. She paused. Possibly. Ryan leaned closer. Define possibly. She tilted her head. Silver hair catching the reactor's glow. The car language has no exact equivalent, but it means your odds are unpleasant. Great love. Unpleasant odds. Really brings out my eyes. She ignored him, focusing on the glowing interface. The hum deepened, vibrating the floor beneath their boots. A fine mist of coolant drifted through the air, glittering in the reactor's light. The core itself was beautiful in a terrifying way, a sphere of molten plasma suspended within magnetic fields, flickering like a trapped sun. Ryan couldn't help himself. So, hypothetically speaking, if this thing blows up, how long do we have? Sarin tapped a control panel, her expression unreadable. About two minutes, give or take your sense of drama. He grinned. Plenty of time for last words, then. Her eyes flicked toward him, luminous and sharp. You find humor in catastrophe. I find humor in staying sane, he said. You should try it sometime. I tried it once, she replied dryly. It was overrated. The reactor emitted a sudden surge, throwing both of them backward. Ryan hit the deck hard, air whooshing out of his lungs. Sparks showered from an overhead conduit, filling the air with the smell of burning insulation. Sarin landed more gracefully because, of course, she did. Her armor absorbed most of the impact, and she was already back on her feet, scanning the core. The containment field is degrading. If it collapses, the entire structure will, she hesitated, then simply said, end. That's a nice way of saying we're doomed, Ryan said, pushing himself up. She didn't deny it. He moved to the secondary console, fingers flying across the cracked controls. The old Earth systems groaned, but obeyed. He rrooed auxiliary power, diverting it to reinforce the field generators. The station trembled, lights flickering wildly. Sarin glanced over, surprise flickering in her eyes. You are doing something reckless, aren't you? Absolutely, he said cheerfully. Good. At least you are consistent. The floor beneath them vibrated harder now. Energy arked across the reactor in jagged bolts. Sarin activated a holographic interface from her armor, overlaying alien schematics over the human systems. Her technology looked fluid, alive, adjusting itself in real time to the chaos. Together, they worked wordlessly. human improvisation meeting alien precision. After what felt like forever, the hum began to stabilize. The wild pulse softened, the light dimmed, and the station's trembling faded into a low thrum. Ryan exhaled, sweat beating on his brow. Did we just save the galaxy? Sarin tilted her head. No, but we may have delayed its next explosion. He wiped his face with a gloved hand. I'll take it. The silence that followed was heavy, but not hostile. For the first time since the catastrophe, the station seemed to breathe again. The communication array flickered online, faint green indicators glowing on the far wall. Ryan grinned. Look at that. She actually listens when I sweet talk her. Sarin arched an eyebrow. You are speaking of the machinery. Yes, mostly. She shook her head, though the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed amusement. Humans form attachments to inanimate objects. Fascinating. Hey, when you've spent this long in space, even the coffee dispenser feels like family. You have poor taste in family, she replied. The console beeped suddenly, cutting through their banter. An incoming transmission. The signal was faint, broken by interference, but unmistakably human. Ryan's heart jumped. He leaned forward, adjusting the frequency. The voice on the other end was crackling, distorted, but real. This is fleet command vessel Ardent. We received your distress ping. Identify yourself. Ryan froze, his throat tightened. He hadn't expected an answer. Sarin watched him carefully. You should respond, she said softly. He cleared his throat, forcing words past the lump in his chest. This is Commander Ryan Hail of the orbital colony Perseus. I'm alive. We He glanced at Sarin, who was standing silent beside him, the glow of her armor painting her in shifting light. We're alive. Static answered at first, then the voice returned more focused. Commander Hail, repeat that. Did you say we? Yeah, Ryan said, "Long story. You're going to love it." The transmission flickered and died. The signal wasn't strong enough to hold. Ryan cursed under his breath. Sarin placed a hand on his shoulder. They heard you. That is enough for now. He looked up at her, smiling weakly. You always this optimistic. No, but someone has to be. They sat together on the edge of the platform, the vast reactor humming softly behind them. For a moment, neither spoke. Ryan looked out through the cracked viewport where the stars spilled endlessly across the void. It should have felt lonely. It didn't. So, what happens now? He asked quietly. Sarin's gaze followed his. Now we wait. And if they come, we find what remains worth saving. And if they do, then we keep standing, she said simply. He laughed softly. You make it sound so easy. It isn't, she replied. But ease was never the point. The lights flickered once more, casting their reflections against the glass. Human and alien, side by side, framed by the glow of a dying sun. Somewhere deep below, the reactor sang its low, endless song. And in that strange harmony, Ryan found peace he hadn't thought possible. Sarin rose, extending a hand. Come, commander, there is still much to repair. He took it, grinning. You just want an excuse to boss me around. She smiled faintly. Perhaps, but you seem to need supervision. Fair point. They walked together toward the corridor, the hum of machinery echoing behind them. Outside, the stars turned slowly, indifferent yet eternal, and the wreckage of humanity's last outpost drifted on alive. For now, because two stubborn souls refused to give up, the stars outside the cracked viewport had begun to shift, slow and deliberate, as if the universe itself were stretching awake after a long sleep. Ryan sat at the comm's console, helmet off, his hair a chaotic nest of exhaustion and low gravity. The transmitter blinked with a steady rhythm, sending out their signal on repeat, whispering through the void every 20 seconds like a heartbeat that refused to stop. He had lost count of how many hours had passed since the first contact with the Ardent. Maybe it had been days, maybe just one very long caffeine-deprived afternoon. Time had become slippery here. Sarin stood near the viewport, staring at the endless scatter of light. Her armor was cracked in three places, glowing faintly, where the internal system still repaired themselves. She looked tired, though Ryan wasn't sure if aliens could be tired the same way humans were. He suspected she was holding herself together, mostly out of stubbornness and spite. He could relate. "Any luck?" she asked, not turning, he sighed. They're answering, just not to us. Our signals bouncing off debris fields. Too much interference. Then we clear the interference, she said simply. Ryan glanced at her incredulous. You mean go outside again. You know, when I signed up for command, I imagined less floating around in dead space and more giving heroic speeches in clean uniforms. Sarin's lips curved faintly. And yet you persist. He smiled back. Yeah, it's one of my worst habits. They suited up and stepped out into the void once more. The silence hit him first, then the beauty, the impossible vastness of it all. Fragments of the colony drifted around them, glowing faintly with reflected sunlight. Somewhere below, Earth gleamed in blue and green, distant and heartbreakingly alive. They moved carefully across the wreckage, guided by the faint light of Sarin's armor. She worked with surgical precision, dismantling old transmitter arrays and rerouting power from dormant modules. Ryan followed her lead, holding tools, cracking jokes, and pretending he wasn't absolutely terrified of losing his grip and spinning into eternity. At one point, his tether caught on a jagged beam. Sarin turned to help, her long ears flicking slightly as she leaned in close. You humans really are fragile, she said, her tone hovering between amusement and concern. We call it endearing vulnerability, he replied. That's one word for it. After nearly 2 hours, they returned inside. The comm's array was realigned, the static on the monitor easing into a faint rhythmic pulse. Ryan adjusted the receiver and froze as a voice broke through the noise. Clear, strong, human. This is fleet command vessel Ardent. Signal confirmed. We're locking coordinates now. Hold position. We're coming for you. Ryan stared, his heart hammering. He looked up at Sarin, who had gone completely still. They heard us, he said softly. She nodded once. Then you are no longer alone. He swallowed hard, laughing shakily. You say that like you're not included in the rescue party. Sarin's gaze lingered on the stars. My mission is complete. I was sent to stand with the dying to record their final stories. But now there is life to carry forward. My purpose ends where yours continues. Ryan frowned. That's a poetic way of saying goodbye, but it sounds like a terrible idea. She smiled faintly. Humans have many words for parting. My people have only one peace. He stood, stepping closer. You're not just going to vanish back into the void. We've come too far for that. Her luminous eyes met his. You have rebuilt what was broken. You gave voice to a silence even I could not bear. That is enough. He shook his head. No, you said you'd stand with me. That doesn't end because someone else shows up with a better spaceship. Something like laughter flickered in her voice. You are remarkably persistent. You have no idea. Before she could reply, the deck shuddered. Lights flickered. Outside, a distant flare illuminated the wreckage as a sleek silhouette emerged from hyperspace. The Ardan, its engines burning like the return of hope itself. The radio crackled to life again. Perseus survivors, this is Commander Nyla Orin. We're approaching your position. Ryan's grin felt uncontainable. You have no idea how good it is to hear another voice that isn't mocking my species. The rescue ship maneuvered closer, extending a docking corridor. Sarin stood silently beside him, her expression unreadable. When the airlock opened, a rush of clean, filtered air swept through the corridor, carrying with it the smell of oil, ozone, and something Ryan hadn't realized he missed. Other people. Nyla Orin stepped through first, her uniform immaculate despite the situation. She looked at him, her expression softening. Hail, we thought you were dead. I get that a lot lately. Her gaze shifted to Sarin and your companion. Ryan hesitated, glancing at the alien beside him. She's the reason I'm not dead. The reason any of this still works. Sarin inclined her head in a gesture of acknowledgement. I am Sarin of the Carrite Guard. Orin blinked, visibly, struggling for composure. We'll debrief that later. For now, let's get you both home. Ryan followed as they moved through the corridor, the hum of the ship wrapping around him like a heartbeat he'd forgotten existed. He glanced back once. Sarin was still standing at the threshold, her silhouette framed by the stars. "You coming?" he asked. For a moment, she said nothing. Then softly, she replied, "This place has sung its final song. It is time for me to listen elsewhere." Ryan opened his mouth to argue, but stopped. There was something in her eyes. peace maybe or acceptance that told him no argument would change her mind. He stepped forward instead and held out his hand. She hesitated then took it. Her touch was cool, Steady. Thank you, he said quietly, for standing with me. Her lips curved into a smile that seemed to hold galaxies in it. You taught me that standing is not the same as surviving. It is choosing to keep moving forward. Then, with a flicker of light, she released his hand and stepped back into the glow. Her form shimmerred, dissolved, and vanished, leaving only a faint ripple in the air, like a breath exhaled by the stars themselves. Ryan stood there for a long time, staring into the space where she had been. Then he turned, walked through the airlock, and sealed the hatch behind him. As the Ardent pulled away, the wreckage of the colony drifted below them, a graveyard reborn under the quiet hum of distant starlight. Ryan sat by the viewport, watching the fragments of metal catch the sun, each piece reflecting a glimmer of something almost like hope. Orin joined him. You okay, commander? He smiled faintly. I will be. She studied him for a moment. You sound different. He looked out at the stars. Yeah, I think I finally understand what standing means. The ship turned toward Earth, engines roaring softly, and the stars began to stretch again. Ryan watched the infinite horizon with quiet awe, feeling the weight of everything he'd lost and everything he'd found. Somewhere out there, he imagined, a tall blue figure walked among the constellations, still listening, still guarding, still laughing at his terrible jokes. And for the first time since the world fell apart, he wasn't afraid of the silence anymore.
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