Chapter Text
Wanderlight
Chapter One - A Signal in the Silence
“Survey data integrity is paramount. Incomplete reports, personal commentary, or subjective classifications compromise the scientific record and are strictly prohibited.”
– GSC Data Compliance Memo, 2068
The star was dying.
It had been burning itself out for thousands of millennia, slowly unraveling, losing its light and heat. And tonight it was finally folding in on itself.
This wasn’t the first star I’d seen die, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, but I still watched it anyways. I watched every one I came across.
The Polaris drifted in its halo, its orbit stable, engines idling low. Outside the viewport, the red giant slowly pulsed, like a heart with a failing rhythm. I kept the ship’s lights dim so it could have the stage. A crimson glow spilled through the windows, painting the cockpit in a vibrant arterial red, which highlighted the wear on the black leather seats, and glinted off well worn paint. The main viewport wasn’t one of those sleek, panoramic sheets of crystal like the newer models. Mine was a thick, layered composite glass, etched by micrometeorites and the abuse of particles moving at hypervelocity. The light would hit its imperfections at just the right angle, fracturing its glow into thousands of smaller arcs.
I had a wall of patches above the comm array. Faded cloth squares velcroed to the metal, each from worlds and systems I’d surveyed. Earth flags, old mission crests, the occasional souvenir design printed by a station vendor. The stitching on some were frayed and some colours had bled into each other, or faded, but I liked it that way. The imperfections made them mine.
A curling sticky note was stuck near the nav screen.
“Overconfidence is the most dangerous form of carelessness.”
The ink had blurred years ago when a coolant line burst and fogged the cabin. I kept it around anyway. It was an old quote from a show I’d watched in my childhood.
An older Earth song played through the tinny speakers of the ship. A slow, melancholic beat reverberated through the cabin.
“It was late at night, you held on tiiight..”
“From an empty seat, a flash of liiight…”
I had heard the song many times before, and I practically had the lyrics memorized. But it never got old, and it fit the view perfectly. I leaned back in the pilot's seat, an empty cup of hot chocolate beside me. Every time the star spasmed, it would bathe the ship in red and gold light. The mug was cold now, its ceramic surface dull. I slowly ran my thumb over the rim, noting the faint residue left over from the cheap synthetic mix I was forced to use. It wasn’t the same. It was never the same.
The cup itself was chipped along one edge, painted with the faint outline of a sea turtle. I’d picked it up on Luna Station Six, from a trader who claimed it came from Earth. Maybe it had. There was a small crack that ran through the creature's eye, and in the red light from the star, it looked almost as if it was bleeding.
The real stuff, made of true cocoa beans and mixed with creamy milk, was just a memory now. A memory of a planet that now only existed in historical videos and documentaries. I remember the tin. Small, octagonal, slightly dented. I’d nursed it for three whole standard rotations, making tiny ceremonial cups on special occasions. My birthday, or a particularly bright nebula worth remembering. The final spoonful had been six months ago. Now I drank this stuff, a sweetened mix of chemicals, pretending it was the same. But it could never compare.
“Survey log,” I said to the ship. “Hayden Solvik, mapping sequence twelve-four-eight. Stellar object designation..” I took a quick glance at the readout on the console in front of me.
“Unnamed red giant. Seems to be dying out.”
The recorder beeped as it finished. I closed the log. There wasn’t much of a point. No one listened to the logs anymore. They were filed in some automated server farm thousands of kilometers, light years away, to be skimmed by a bot before being deleted in the quarterly purge. The Galactic Survey Corps no longer cared about beautiful stars or the sight of a dying sun folding in on itself. They cared about minerals, and new terraforming opportunities.
I still sent them though, a habit I guess.
I leaned back, listening to the hiss of the life support vents, and the general hum of the symphony of systems. Fans spinning, coolant lines clicking, and the faint whine of gyro pumps. I’d grown used to the sound, and it was almost comforting to me. As long as I heard those sounds, I knew the components were doing their job keeping me alive. I’d memorized the order the sounds came in. The double-thump of the stabilizers flexing, then the hiss of the port side compensators venting excess heat. If it didn’t happen in that pattern, then I knew something was wrong.
The air was always the same temperature, the air slightly too dry. Every so often though, the humidity valve cycled and gave off a burst of that wet mineral smell. Like rain on a city sidewalk.
The song continued playing. I took a deep breath, closing my eyes, and imagining I was breathing earth's clean air instead of the recycled oxygen from the scrubbers on my ship. The air here was sterile, slightly metallic even. I probably need to change the filters soon. I missed the smell of pine, or humid lake air on a summer morning. I could almost imagine the cool feeling of rain on my skin, and the sounds of birds singing their songs.
I watched as the star continued to pulsate. My ship floated there for a while. Maybe a couple minutes. Maybe an hour. My iPod, a relic of the Earth days, continued shuffling through my playlists. It’s almost as if it knew the perfect songs to play to me.
The cockpit in front of me was well worn, and instead of dozens of holographic screens and digital buttons, there were tactile switches and toggles covering the dash. I preferred it over the technology of the newer models though. The physical “click” gave me more confidence that something was actually happening when I pressed a button. The buttons were smoothed out from years of use, their labels faded from the oil of my fingertips.
Across from the pilot's seat, an old flip clock was bolted to the dash. I frequently lost track of time, and having something reliable that worked even when the rest of the ship was without power let me remember to take breaks.
The humming of the ship occasionally interrupted the music. The sounds of the oxy scrubbers, or the coolant pumps sometimes overpowered the soft rhythm of the music, but it brought me back to reality. Sometimes the ship would drift from side to side, before the sublight engines would kick in and move it back into position, recentering me. They grumbled, like a tired beast reluctantly returning to its task, before going back to sleep.
I switched on external cameras, and the screen in front of me flickered to life as the video feed filled the screen. “Mark coordinates,” I said, taking a quick recording. “No-name giant. Terminal phase. Beauty rating: 10.”
The system pinged as it logged my entry. I kept a personal database of the places I visited. Sure, it took up a lot of storage. But I felt almost as if it was my duty to remember them. A couple petabytes was nothing compared to the amount of things that were forgotten in this universe. Some of the special ones I even named.
I liked to give them earth names. Sometimes I’d name them after cities, or people from my past. Anny, a deep blue gas giant, I named after a classmate who helped me with my chemistry work. Charlotte was a small red moon, I named after the capital of Prince Edward Island. Its red surface reminded me of the red beaches I’d visited so long ago. Stella, the name of a character in a book I’d read but forgotten the title of. I’d try a diverse range too, trying to keep some of earth's culture alive. European names, Nordic names, Asian names. Anything I could think of. As a human, I felt compelled to keep our history alive. Not just history but diversity too. All the variety that made earth truly vibrant. I wasn’t changing the universe, but changing even a tiny part of it made me proud.
I sat there a while longer, watching the red light fade along the console's edges. There’s a certain peace that comes from seeing beauty that no one else will ever see.
The Polaris’s air scrubbers coughed, and a puff of dust came from the nearest vent. I sighed and unclipped a maintenance panel, pulling the filter free. It was the colour of rust, and smelled faintly of ozone.
“Add that to the list,” I said.
The ship made a faint ping in response. I reached for my last new filter, tearing the packaging. It was so old it practically disintegrated in my hands. I carefully pushed in the new filter, feeling the magnetic pull as it locked into place, then pushed the panel back in with my arm. The fans instantly kicked in, before settling down to a steadier rhythm.
The ship was quieter again, except for the soft sound of a piano over the speakers. I checked the systems panel. No alerts. Life support green. Hull integrity normal. Thruster calibration still off by a fraction of a percent, but it’s been that way for years.
Routine checks complete.
Outside the viewport, the rest of the system was pretty thin. A scattering of asteroids, and a ring of space dust, which caught the dying flare of the collapsing sun. The light sparkled like fireflies over a dark ocean. It reminded me of earth for a second. How sunlight glittered on calm waves.
Suddenly another ping sounded. I hadn’t said anything though. Then it came again.
Ping
A soft note, almost overshadowed by the white noise of the rest of the ship. It continued, like a heartbeat.
I thought maybe it was a sensor drift. The Polaris was by no means a new or modern ship. Instruments act up when the field is thin enough. The ship had been coasting for at least 10 hours, plenty of time for the scanners to start hearing ghosts.
I flicked through the diagnostics anyway, searching for a source. Nothing wrong. Green across the board . No alerts, no spikes, no flickers. The Polaris continued to purr underneath me as per usual.
I pulled up the comms display. A simple graph showed a waveform jumping with each pulse. Clean intervals, too regular for normal interference.
“Old beacon?” I mumbled. “Or ghosts.”
The signal was analog. Manual. Someone, or something was tapping it out.
“Distress code?” I mused.
The Polaris gave two chirps in response. A yes.
“Source?”
A thread of light drew itself across the navigation grid. Bearing twenty-two by six, range eight hundred thousand klicks. A short hop by galactic standards.
The dying star flared once more behind me, almost like it was urging me to go. I reached for the controls, but hesitated.
“But what if it’s pirates?”
The ship gave a short trill, kind of like it was giving a shrug.
“Either way, I guess we’ve got nothing better to do.” I stared out the window at the star.
“Log entry,” I said. “Hayden Solvik, Polaris. Picking up an unidentified signal, delta-band, probably an echo. Just checking it out before heading to Cestus gate. Feels wrong to leave it alone.”
The recorder beeped as it finished. The thrusters of the Polaris came alive as the well-worn ship slowly spun on its axis, lining itself up with the vector. The dying star slipped off to port, shrinking until it was nothing but a red spark in the rear camera. Ahead, there was nothing but the dark, cold void of space, with a smattering of stars. The pings continued.
I let autopilot handle the burn and instead went to prepare.
“Keep the channel open,” I said. “Full gain.”
The ship answered with a gentle tone, and I felt it rumble under my feet as it accelerated. Once it reached full speed, I stood up, walking to a nearby panel on the wall.
“1..2..3..4.” I mumbled to myself as I put the code into the small keypad.
The panel swung open with a click, revealing a small cache of supplies. In the center of it all, two small pistols. Kinetic weapons were less common these days, but still used, so ammunition was plentiful. What was rare was that these guns were human-made, and fit for my human hands.
I grabbed both, slotting them into holsters around my waist, as well as several magazines for each. My hand lingered on the grip a moment longer than usual. The memory of scorch marks from the last “distress” call hadn’t faded yet.
“Better safe than sorry,”
I double checked the seals on my jacket. Standard issue Corps survey gear. Reinforced fabric, breathable, and plenty of pockets for gear. The heavier chest plate I had on over it still bore the faded insignia of the GSC. A stylized sun rising over a horizon. While it wasn’t military level, it would protect me from small arms, or shrapnel.
Underneath the jacket, I wore the same thermal shirt I’d had since my first deployment. The collar was a bit frayed, and there was a hot chocolate stain near the seam that refused to wash out. My boots were magnetized, the soles scarred from years of use docking on half-functional hulls.
Another forty minutes later, something appeared on the scope. What began as a faint glint of metal eventually turned into a small shuttle. Compact, civilian class. With the channel still open, I could hear the signal more clearly now. Sometimes it would falter, almost like the person sending it was on the verge of falling asleep.
I reached for the flight stick and thumbed off the autopilot. The Polaris gave a low hum of protest as the manual controls came back online.
The image on the scope became even clearer, and I could see carbon scoring along the hull, lights flickering in the windows.
“Let’s check your name..” I circled the battered shuttle, the thrusters of the Polaris making a puffing noise as they worked, exterior lights scanning the scarred hull plating for identification.
As I circled in closer, the shuttle filled the forward viewport, its hull pitted and blackened. Faded white paint still clung to certain areas, and running lights blinked sporadically.
“Songbird,” I read the name out loud.
Readouts showed a low-oxygen environment, hull compromised in certain areas. However, there were still some intact rooms.
I hovered my hand over the docking controls for a long moment. The last time I’d checked a distress signal, about two years ago, it had been pirates. I’d barely made it out, and they left some scorch marks on my hull as a parting gift. My other hand rested on one of my sidearms, the familiar weight giving me some comfort. This call seemed different, in a way. I decided to trust my natural instinct.
“Alright Songbird,” I said to myself. “Let’s see who’s still singing.”
The Polaris sidled up alongside it, maneuvering thrusts firing in rapid bursts. I slowly moved my ship closer, then extended the boarding clamps.
They locked onto the shuttle's battered hull with a deep metallic thud. I could feel the vibration ripple through the hull of the Polaris.
As the airlock cycled, the lights flickered. A low alarm hummed once, then faded. Through the viewport I could see condensation blooming along the inside of the Songbird’s inner hatch, meaning pressure was still there. There was still air. Still someone.
I reached for my helmet, the metal cold against my palms, and slid it over my head.
I stood still for a second, staring at the hatch. Maybe this was a bad idea.
“Hope you’re friendly.” I said, voice echoing in my ears.
The airlock opened with a cough of pressurized air, followed by a long hiss. I stepped forward, boots clanging against the metal floor. My right hand gripped my pistol, safety off. The gravity was weak, but still present. My lights cut a sharp cone through the darkness inside the Songbird, highlighting a haze of small particles, dust drifting through the air like snow.
“Hello?” I called out. My voice sounded strange to me through the helmet. Too loud, too close.
There was no response. Great.
The air was thin, and cold enough to bite through my suit. I could tell that the life support systems were close to giving up. Frost had begun to form on surfaces, and it glittered under the beams of my light.
The interior was compact, civilian-grade. It was a mess. Drawers and cabinets were ripped open, their contents scattered across the floor. There were stains too, dark, dried, and unevenly spread. I didn’t need scanners to tell what they were. I stepped forwards, accidentally nudging an empty mug that clattered across the floor, rolling to a stop against the far wall.
I took a glance at a cracked display to my left. It flickered every few seconds, but it was functional.
O2 : 6% - CRITICAL
I carefully made my way through the ransacked ship, towards the cockpit, scanning each compartment. Maybe the logs would have some info. The layout of the ship was simple. Most likely a long range courier or transport. Built for long hauls, but not trouble.
As I stepped over some items, I noticed a door to my right was ajar. No harm in checking, I thought.
The door was stuck, and the motors screeched as I forced the opening wider. I kept my gun half raised as I stepped into the cabin, sweeping the light across the corners before lowering it again. The inside of the room appeared to be a crew quarters, but definitely not anymore. Bedding was ripped apart, drawers dumped, and clothing scattered.
And there, on the floor near the bed, lay a body. I could feel my throat tighten.
It was a Napilion from the look of it. Furry, rabbit-like creatures with a smaller build, long ears, a short muzzle and small puffy tails. I stared at its empty, glassy eyes. There was a long cut down its abdomen, from chest to hip, organs spilling onto the deck, coating the floor in viscera. If my helmet didn’t filter smells, I’m sure it would’ve been unbearable.
No clothes either, they were discarded in a pile nearby, as if ripped off and thrown away. It was a grisly sight, and there were several other injuries. One arm was bent at an unnatural angle, the other hand tied to the bed. It was definitely not a peaceful death.
I left the room, leaving the body behind, but the sight remained burned into my eyes.
Across the hall, another door waited. I forced it open, just like the first. It took a good couple minutes of grinding metal and a few curses before I managed to pry it open.
The second cabin mirrored the first, overturned chairs, drawers ripped apart, general chaos. I could hear a faint rhythmic noise. Breathing.
I exhaled slowly, and lowered my weapon.
I panned my light through the room. There, on the bed. Another figure. It, or rather she, was more intact than her crewmate. She lay like a discarded doll, one arm hanging limply over the side, the other clutching a small rectangular device. The beacon.
Her fur was damp from condensation. A thin mist of breath drifted in the air above her snout, before dissipating quickly into the air. She was alive. Just barely.
I examined some of the discarded clothes, which were slightly torn. A small patch read Songbird - Engineering Crew.
She was Awetian. I’d only ever met a handful. They were humanoid in terms of size and build, but looked almost like earth foxes. Fur, long tail, paws, and digitigrade legs. Ears half-folded against her head.
I caught myself staring, and shook it off. Unclipping an emergency oxygen line from my waist, I attached it to a mask from my kit and carefully sealed it over her muzzle. As I turned the valve, the canister hissed, releasing some oxygen. The sound cut through the stillness of the room like a blade. I slowly adjusted the flow, watching the readout on my wrist display shift from red to yellow.
“Easy,” I muttered. “Come on, breathe.”
Five seconds. Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Nothing happened. My breath echoed in my helmet. Was I too late? I reached out and brushed a bit of frost from her muzzle with my gloved thumb. Her fur was cold, but soft, not stiff yet. My hands felt clumsy in the cold, every movement stiff.
It felt like I waited there for an eternity. Then suddenly, a twitch. One ear, then the other. Followed by a short gasp. Then another. Her chest lifted weakly.
“That’s it,” I murmured. “You’re gonna make it.”
I eased the flow a little higher. Her breathing steadied slightly, rough but consistent.
Her eyelids fluttered, then opened. Wide pupils, rimmed in pale green, stared back at me. She blinked hard, once, twice, against the glare of my helmet lamp, eyes slightly glassy and unfocused.
I shut off the light to keep from blinding her, the room still half-illuminated by red emergency lights. Her gaze met mine through the visor. For a second, she seemed to be looking right through me. Like she was somewhere else.
“Hey there,” I said softly. “It’s okay, you’re safe now.”
I slowly removed the mask from her snout.
Her lips parted, dry and cracked. No sound came out at first, then a rasp of a voice, barely louder than the hiss of the breather.
“..You’re human.”
I stared at her for a second, not sure what to say.
“Yeah,” I said quietly after a moment. “Guess I am.”