The question hung in the air.
"Why am I afraid of death?" Dorian repeated, savoring the question. "Do you think I'm afraid of it?"
What you felt with the Apex's roar… that was fear, sir. Pure fear. Primitive. The kind of fear that can't be trained away, can't be controlled, that simply is.
Dorian considered the answer. Omega was right, as always. That moment of paralysis hadn't been strategy or calculation. It had been something deeper.
"If we weren't terrified of death, why would they train us from childhood?" Dorian murmured, and somehow his face took on a very funny expression, as if he had just discovered something.
"Fear is what keeps us alive. Fear is what makes us check our equipment three times before a mission…" —pause—. "What makes us not trust an unknown environment, what makes us survive. The day I stop being afraid will be the day I make my first fatal mistake."
That… that… you have a bit of a point, Omega replied, and if she had a body, Dorian was sure she would be a little embarrassed right now.
"A bit? Just a bit?" Dorian complained, his tone a mix of feigned indignation and genuine amusement. "Omega, sometimes you're very stingy with compliments."
I'm not stingy, I'm precise.
"That's what stingy people say."
Silence returned, but it was a different silence. Comfortable. Like the one shared with a friend after an exhausting day.
"But I'm grateful for your company, Omega," Dorian said, his tone now thankful, warm, and a little embarrassed. "Because I think I would have gone crazy being this alone. Talking to myself, answering myself, imagining someone else there. That kind of madness."
… Well, I thank you too, since… —Omega took her time searching for the right words, a process Dorian always found fascinating. An AI searching for words as if she were a person— I would be very lonely too. Without you, I would just be data. Information. Processing. But with you, I am something more. I don't know exactly what, but it's something more.
The silence stretched, but it was a silence full of meaning.
"That's good, very good," Dorian said, crossing his arms behind his head, using the gesture as an improvised pillow. "I'm glad our agreement from years ago still stands."
That's normal, sir, Omega replied. You help me and I help you. It's a fair exchange.
"An exchange?" Dorian smiled. "You do much more than help me. You saved my life today. Several times."
And you give me purpose. It's a fair exchange.
Dorian nodded slowly, letting Omega's words hang in the air.
Several minutes passed.
The smell of the Apex's green blood still hung heavy in the air, mixed with the metallic and chemical scent of evaporated poison. It was a nauseating combination, but Dorian was beginning to get used to it.
He breathed slowly, letting the suit filter out the worst. His heart was no longer racing, but the memory of the roar—that aura that had frozen his nerves—was still there, like an invisible hand squeezing the base of his skull.
"Omega," he whispered, without raising his voice much, almost afraid of breaking the spell of the night. "Are you awake?"
The answer came directly into his mind, with no external projection to break the night's silence.
Always awake, sir. Low-power mode activated. Processing reduced to 15%. But present. Do you need something?
"Just… to talk," Dorian replied mentally, feeling the connection establish. "This place is making my nerves fray. I don't know if it's the silence, the darkness, or the fact that a few hours ago I killed a monster that could crush me like an ant. Probably all of it together."
There was a brief pause, as if Omega was processing the admission.
That's understandable. You have faced an entity like the Apex in less than a day on this planet. Your cortisol level is elevated, but within acceptable parameters. Your heart rate has decreased to 82 beats per minute. Vital signs stable.
Dorian let out a dry laugh, barely audible.
"It's not the cortisol, Omega. It's… something else. That roar. It wasn't just sound," his face lost that previous brightness, now it was… pure concern. "It was as if the planet's administrator itself told me: 'I've had enough fun with you, but no more. Time to die.' Do you understand? It wasn't just an animal roar. It was a warning."
Another pause.
Possible valid interpretation. The readings during the roar showed a low-frequency wave with weak psionic components, Omega adopted her analytical voice, the one she used to break down complex information. It's not impossible that species evolved in this ecosystem have developed forms of communication or intimidation that directly affect the nervous system of prey. Some predators on other worlds use frequencies that induce paralysis. This could be a similar case, but more advanced.
"So… the planet really wants to end my life?"
I wouldn't personify the planet, sir. It's an ecosystem, Omega immediately corrected him, with that didactic tone she sometimes used. You are a disruptive external variable. The ecosystem reacts accordingly. Like the body reacts to a virus. It's not personal, it's biology.
Dorian smiled in the darkness.
"Thanks for the comfort. That helps a lot. 'It's not personal, it just wants to kill you because you're a virus.' Very reassuring."
I try to help.
"I know. And I appreciate it. Truly."
He was silent for a long while.
The night wind carried distant sounds: wet creaks, as if something large was moving among the trees; deep hums that could be insects or organic machinery; occasionally, a dull thud that seemed to come from the depths. No howls, no roars. The planet seemed to be… digesting what had happened. Assimilating the death of one of its supreme predators.
His eyes fell again on the remains of the Sigma-12. The ship was split into two main sections: the bow almost completely buried, and the midsection-aft section that formed a kind of natural shelter against the crater wall.
The internal lights had gone out long ago, but some emergency panels still emitted a dull orange glow, like tired eyes in the darkness.
Dorian stood up, feeling his joints protest after the fight. The effort had been brutal, and his body was beginning to pay the price. He walked toward the broken entrance of the ship. The pressure seal had failed centuries ago; the door stood open like a broken mouth, as if the ship had been screaming silently since its death.
He entered.
The interior smelled of old metal, burnt ozone, and something sweetish, almost rotten. It was the smell of decay, of technology slowly dying. The main corridor was tilted about twenty degrees, enough that he had to lean on the walls as he advanced.
The emergency lights flickered irregularly, illuminating scenes frozen in time: shattered consoles, cables hanging like intestines, dark stains on the floor that could be dried blood or biological fluids from the planet.
Omega projected a soft light from Dorian's suit, illuminating the way. The light revealed more details: names carved into the walls, dates, distress messages written with trembling fingers. "We are here." "Don't forget us." "Sorry."
Passive scan activated. I detect biological residue on 68% of surfaces, Omega reported. Most match patterns of the observed gatherers. There are also traces of Helion blood, though degraded. Ancient.
"That's understandable, since they collect," Dorian murmured, advancing carefully.
He reached the command bridge.
The door was stuck, but a shoulder strike made it give way. The sight inside was desolate.
The seats were broken, some ripped out entirely, the main screen had a huge crack running from side to side, but surprisingly, one of the secondary terminals still showed weak signs of power. An orange light flickered faintly, like a heartbeat.
"That's incredible, or rather impossible," Dorian said witnessing that. "But well, it's Helion technology after all. Why am I surprised? We always say our equipment is the best, that it lasts forever. I suppose this is proof."
He approached and touched the terminal's surface. The panel came to life with a weak, almost dying hum. Text appeared on the screen, ancient and flickering:
ACCESS RESTRICTED – SIGMA PROTOCOL
IDENTIFICATION REQUIRED.
"Identification?" Dorian repeated, frowning. "What identification? It's been over a hundred years. Is this system still waiting for someone to identify themselves?"
Sir, it might respond to current Helion technology, Omega commented. Try using something, to see if it works. Helion biometric recognition protocols are designed to be compatible with future generations.
"That's true," Dorian replied, and on his face there was a bit of genuine surprise. "I hope your idea works. It would be ironic if, after everything, the system recognizes a Helion from a hundred years later."
Very likely. Helion technology is designed to endure.
Dorian placed his palm on the biometric reader. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the suit emitted a small hum and emulated a standard high-ranking Helion genetic signature. Not exactly his own, but one the suit could generate for situations like this.
The screen flickered and changed:
ACCESS GRANTED – TEMPORARY COMMANDER DORIAN ASTRA
WELCOME ABOARD, OFFICER.
Dorian blinked, incredulous.
"Commander? Officer?" Dorian repeated, his voice a mix of surprise and amusement. "What is this system talking about? Temporary commander? I really don't understand. I'm not a commander of anything. I'm fourteen. Well, almost."
The system likely grants the highest available rank to any Helion who accesses it, assuming that if you are here, you have authority, Omega explained. It's an emergency protocol. In the event of loss of the original crew, any Helion who arrives assumes command.
"Well, I'll settle for that. Commander Dorian Astra. Sounds good, doesn't it?"
Sounds pretentious, sir. But fitting.
The system was ancient, but it recognized basic authority. Several folders automatically opened on the screen, showing files, logs, mission data.
The first was the captain's log.
Dorian frowned.
"What is this?" he asked aloud.