Day 1

  The first thing Alex registered was the pain. It radiated from his left side, a dull throbbing that pulsed with each heartbeat, each beat reminding him that he was still alive—whether he wanted to be or not. His eyelids felt like they were weighted with lead, and when he finally managed to pry them open, the dim red light of the escape pod's emergency system stabbed into his consciousness like a blade.

  This is what dying feels like.

  The thought came unbidden, crystal clear through the fog of trauma. He'd wondered about it sometimes, in the quiet moments aboard the Prometheus. What would it be like? Would there be pain? Fear? Nothing?

  Now he knew. Pain. Just pain, and the sickly red glow of dying systems.

  He was lying on the floor. The pod had inverted sometime during the crash—or what he could remember of the crash. The seat had detached from its mounts and lay crumpled against what had been the ceiling, a twisted metal skeleton that used to be his safety. Monitors flickered with dead pixels, their corrupted displays like the dying eyes of a machine. The air smelled of burnt circuitry and something else, something metallic and organic.

  Blood. His blood. The iron tang of it coated his tongue, thick and wrong.

  How bad is it? How bad am I?

  He tried to move and immediately regretted it. A sharp cry escaped his lips as fire lanced through his ribs, a white-hot poker stabbing through his chest. He could feel the damage—at least two broken ribs, possibly three, grinding against each other with every shallow breath. His left arm hung useless at his side, a dead weight, and when he tried to wiggle his fingers, white-hot agony shot from his wrist to his elbow.

  Dislocated. Fractured. Great.

  The escape pod was a tomb. A metal coffin drifting in the void. The main console was dark, shattered by the impact, its screen a spiderweb of broken glass. Only the emergency lighting remained, casting everything in a sickly red glow that made him think of hospitals, of morgues, of places where people went to die. Through the small viewport—cracked but intact—he could see nothing but black. Stars, yes, but no planets, no nebulae, no reference points at all. Just the endless void of space, indifferent to his suffering.

  Alone. I'm completely alone.

  The silence was the worst part. Not the pain, not the darkness—the silence. No hum of engines, no ventilation, no life support beyond the bare minimum. Just the soft hiss of recycled air and the wet sounds of his own breathing, each inhale a labor, each exhale a reminder that he was still clinging to life.

  How long was I out? Hours? Days?

  He didn't know. The clock on the emergency panel had reset, showing zeros, a digital countdown to nothing. The main computer was dead, and the backup systems were cycling through diagnostics, over and over, searching for a system that no longer existed. The redundancy that was supposed to save him was just an endless loop of failure.

  Think. Think. What did they teach you in survival training?

  But survival training hadn't covered this. This wasn't a simulation, wasn't a drill. This was real—realer than anything he'd ever experienced. The pod wasn't supposed to fail. The beacon was supposed to work. The rescue was supposed to come.

  Nothing is working. Nothing is going to plan.

  Alex forced himself to sit up, biting back the scream that threatened to escape. The motion sent stars swimming across his vision, and he had to pause, breathing heavily, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass. His vision grayed at the edges, threatening to swallow him again. When it did, he took stock of his situation, item by item, cataloging what he had and what he didn't.

  The escape pod had been designed for exactly this—an emergency refuge, a last resort. It had a small food supply, enough for maybe two weeks if he was lucky. Water recycler. First aid kit. Emergency beacon. Communication array.

  The beacon. That's his only hope.

  He turned his head, wincing at the pain in his neck, and looked at the console. The beacon indicator was dark. Dead. Just another casualty of the crash. He reached over with his good arm and tapped the screen. Nothing. The console was dead—completely dead, its black mirror reflecting his own face back at him.

  No. No, no, no.

  He tried again. Tapped harder. The screen remained black, a reflection of his own face staring back at him—pale, bloodied, desperate. He could see the fear in his own eyes, and it terrified him more than the pain. Who was that man? That broken, bleeding stranger?

  That's me. That's what dying looks like.

  Think. Think.

  The escape pod had two beacon systems. The main array, connected to the primary console. And the backup—a small, self-contained unit in the emergency kit. It wouldn't have the range of the main system, but it might be enough. Might.

  Maybes. That's all I have now. Maybes.

  Alex looked around the cramped space, searching through the debris. The emergency kit had been thrown free during the crash, its contents scattered across what had been the ceiling. He saw a bandage here, a tube of antiseptic there. The beacon was somewhere in that mess, somewhere in the wreckage of his last hope.

  He reached for it, his arm stretching, and pain lanced through his shoulder. He gritted his teeth and kept reaching, muscles screaming, until his fingers closed around a small cylindrical object. The shape was unmistakable. The emergency beacon.

  Please. Please work.

  He activated it. A small LED turned green, and a faint beeping began—a signal, transmitting into the void. But to whom? And where? The beacon was working, but without position data, without a target, it was just noise. A cry in the darkness that might never be heard.

  At least I'm trying. At least I'm not giving up.

  The oxygen gauge caught his eye. Forty-three percent. The pod had lost some of its air during the crash, and the recycling system was working at reduced capacity, struggling to keep him alive. He had maybe three days at this rate. Maybe less.

  Three days. Then I suffocate. Alone. In the void between stars.

  Sarah.

  The name surfaced in his mind, bringing with it a wave of grief so intense it threatened to drown him. Sarah, his wife. Sarah, who had been on the Prometheus with him. Sarah, who had been in the command center when the cascade failure hit, when everything went wrong, when the world he knew ended.

  Is she dead too? Did the same explosion that sent me spinning kill her too?

  He remembered the last time he'd seen her. They'd been arguing—about what, he couldn't remember now. Something trivial. Something stupid. She'd been upset about his risk-taking, about his refusal to stay behind when the distress signal came in. And he'd told her he'd be careful.

  I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I wasn't careful.

  Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the blood from the gash on his forehead. He didn't wipe them away. There was no point. The tears fell onto his chest, onto his broken ribs, and the salt water burned, but he didn't care.

  I should have stayed. I should have been there with her.

  The grief was a physical thing, a weight on his chest that made breathing even harder. But underneath it, underneath the grief and the pain and the fear, there was something else. Something stubborn.

  I'm not dead yet. Not yet.

  He wasn't going to give up. Not while there was breath in his body. Not while the beacon was still beeping.

  He would survive. He had to.

  Day 3

  Alex had been drifting for what he estimated was three days—his internal clock was unreliable at best, with no sun, no stars, no external references to mark the hours. The pain had become a companion, a constant companion that he'd learned to work around. The broken ribs still screamed with every breath, but he'd found positions that minimized the agony. His left arm was strapped to his chest now, the dislocation popped back into place by his own desperate tugging, the shoulder immobilized as best he could manage.

  The beacon has been transmitting for three days now. Still no response.

  He tried not to think about what that meant—tried not to think about the vastness of space, the impossibility of finding one small escape pod in the endless dark. He tried not to think about how the signal might be reaching nothing, no one, an echo into the void.

  Someone will hear. They have to. Humanity has ships everywhere. They'll hear.

  He didn't believe it, not really. But hope was all he had, and he clung to it anyway, desperate and grateful for anything to hold onto.

  The pod's food supply was running low. He'd been rationing carefully, eating only enough to keep his strength up, but the supplies were designed for a crew of four for three days. Not one injured man for an indefinite period. He had maybe four days of food left, if he was careful. Five if he stretched it.

  Five days. Then what? Starvation on top of everything else?

  Water was less of a concern—the recycler was working, producing enough to keep him hydrated. But the taste was foul, metallic and slightly sweet, like old batteries. He forced himself to drink it anyway. It was water. It was keeping him alive. That was all that mattered.

  The oxygen situation was the worst.

  The gauge read eighteen percent, and dropping. He'd done the math a dozen times. At this rate, he had maybe thirty hours of breathable air left. Thirty hours, and then he'd drift into unconsciousness, and then he'd die.

  Thirty hours. That's plenty of time. Someone will come.

  He didn't believe it, but he clung to the hope anyway. It was all he had.

  At least the pain is keeping me awake. At least I can't sleep through my own death.

  The irony wasn't lost on him. The broken ribs that made every breath agony were also keeping him conscious, keeping him aware, keeping him alive.

  Maybe that's a mercy. Maybe I'd rather feel this than slip away without knowing.

  Day 4

  On what he estimated was the fourth day, Alex noticed something strange.

  Through the cracked viewport, he saw a light. Faint, distant, but definitely there. A star? A planet? A ship?

  He watched it for hours, tracking its position, trying to determine what it was. It wasn't a star—stars didn't move in the short term. But it wasn't moving fast either, just drifting, slowly, in the same general direction as his pod.

  It's a ship. Has to be. Or debris. Or something.

  He tried the communication array again, but it was still dead. He couldn't raise anyone, couldn't send a message, couldn't do anything but watch and wait.

  Come on. Please. See me. Hear me.

  But the light didn't respond. It just drifted, silent and distant, and eventually it slipped out of view, lost in the infinite black.

  Was it real? Did I imagine it?

  He didn't know. He couldn't know. The mind did strange things when it was starving, when it was suffocating, when it was losing hope.

  I need to keep it together. I need to stay sane.

  But sanity was a luxury, and he wasn't sure he could afford it much longer.

  Day 5

  The oxygen gauge read twelve percent.

  Alex had stopped moving as much as possible, trying to conserve air. His body ached, his ribs screaming with every breath, but he forced himself to stay still. To breathe slowly. To not panic.

  The slower I breathe, the longer I last. It's that simple. It's that cruel.

  The light he'd seen the day before was gone. Either it had been his imagination, or it had moved out of view. He couldn't tell which, and he didn't care anymore. Hope was a luxury he couldn't afford.

  What was my life, really? What did I leave behind?

  He thought about his life. About the choices he'd made. About the people he'd left behind.

  His mother would be worried. She was getting old, and she'd already lost so much—his father, years ago, to the same void that was now swallowing him. His brother would take care of her—that was what family did. They'd grieve, but they'd go on. Life went on.

  And Sarah... Sarah would grieve, but she'd move on. She was strong like that. Stronger than him.

  I should have told her more. I should have said it more.

  I'm sorry I wasn't stronger. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry I wasn't there when it mattered.

  The tears came again, and this time he didn't fight them. Let them come. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore.

  Day 7

  The oxygen gauge read six percent.

  Alex was finding it harder to stay awake. His vision kept graying at the edges, and his thoughts were getting fuzzy. He knew what that meant—the body shutting down, conserving energy, preparing for the end.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The end is coming. I can feel it.

  At least it will be quick. Suffocation isn't the worst way to go. At least there's no pain, not really. Just... fading. Like a candle guttering out.

  He thought about the beacon. It was still transmitting, he assumed. The little green light was still blinking, faithful and useless, a small light in the darkness. Maybe someone would find it, someday. Maybe they'd recover his body, give him a proper burial. Maybe they'd forget about him entirely.

  It doesn't matter. None of it matters anymore.

  Did I make a difference? Did anything I do matter?

  He thought about the Prometheus, about the crew, about the mission. They'd been explorers, pioneers, pushing the boundaries of human knowledge. And now what? He was dying alone in a broken pod, and the only thing he'd contributed was a distress signal that might never be heard.

  At least I tried. At least I didn't give up without fighting.

  He closed his eyes, letting the darkness take him. He didn't have the strength to keep them open anymore. Didn't have the strength for anything.

  Day 8

  He was still alive.

  Alex woke with a gasp, lungs burning, chest heaving. The pain was still there, but it seemed distant now, like a memory of pain rather than pain itself. He looked at the oxygen gauge.

  One percent.

  The needle was in the red, flickering between one and zero. Any moment now, the air would run out. Any moment now, he'd slip away.

  I'm not ready.

  But he was. He had to be. There was no choice.

  Did I do everything I could? Did I leave anything unsaid?

  He thought about Sarah again. About the life they'd planned, the children they'd wanted, the future they'd dreamed about. All gone now. All swept away by the cold indifference of space.

  At least I tried. At least I didn't give up.

  The beacon was still blinking. Green. Flickering. A small light in the darkness.

  Thank you. For keeping me company. For giving me something to focus on.

  He didn't know if anyone would ever find him. But the beacon kept transmitting, kept hoping, kept believing.

  Maybe that's all any of us can do. Keep transmitting. Keep hoping. Keep believing.

  Day 9

  The impossible happened.

  Alex woke to the sound of static. Faint, distant, but definitely there. He thought he was dreaming at first—his oxygen-starved brain conjuring phantoms, giving him false hope. But then he heard it again.

  Static.

  His heart lurched. Hope, sudden and violent, surged through him like electricity. He turned his head, searching for the source, and saw it on the emergency console. A small screen, one he thought had been dead, was flickering with white noise.

  Someone is out there. Someone heard me.

  He reached over, his arm screaming in protest, and tapped the screen. The static cleared, just for a moment, and he heard a voice. Distorted, broken, but definitely a voice.

  "—copy—distress signal—position—"

  He tried to respond, but his voice came out as a croak. A whisper. The console didn't seem to have a microphone—the static was one-way, a broadcast he couldn't respond to.

  Come on. Come on. I'm here. I'm right here.

  But they couldn't hear him. Couldn't know how close he was. Couldn't know that he was running out of time.

  Please. Please hear me. Please find me.

  Day 10

  The oxygen was gone, but Alex was still breathing.

  He didn't know how. The gauge had hit zero hours ago, and he'd accepted his fate. But somehow, his lungs kept working. Keeping extracting what little oxygen remained in the air, keeping his heart beating, keeping him alive.

  Wait—the emergency supplemental oxygen system.

  He remembered suddenly—every emergency pod had a secondary oxygen supply, a hidden reserve designed for exactly this situation. It was supposed to be a last resort, a final safeguard. But it had a limited capacity, and once it was gone, it was gone.

  How much is left? Minutes? Hours?

  He checked the gauge. Zero. But the supplemental system must have been kicking in automatically when the main supply hit zero. That was the only explanation. The backup was keeping him alive, but for how long?

  It doesn't matter. Someone heard me. Someone is coming.

  He laughed, and the sound was horrible—wet, rasping, like a death rattle. But it was a laugh, and it felt good to laugh. Laughing meant living. Laughing meant he'd beaten the odds one more time.

  How much longer can I last? Minutes? Hours?

  He didn't know. He didn't care. The static had stopped, but the beacon was still blinking. Green. Steady. A light in the darkness, a signal in the void.

  Someone heard me. Someone is coming.

  He just had to hold on a little longer. Just a little longer.

  Day 11

  The beacon pinged.

  Alex had drifted in and out of consciousness, the line between life and death blurring. He didn't know how long he'd been lying there—hours, maybe days, maybe more. Time had lost all meaning. The only thing that mattered was the slow, agonizing rhythm of his breathing.

  But then the beacon pinged. A different sound—not the steady beep of the distress signal, but something else. Something new. Something that meant rescue.

  He forced his eyes open. The console was different now. The screen, which had been showing static, was displaying a different pattern. A shape. A ship.

  A ship.

  A ship was approaching.

  I'm going to live.

  The thought was so unexpected, so impossible, that he almost didn't believe it. But there it was, growing larger on the screen. A ship, coming to rescue him.

  I'M GOING TO LIVE.

  He closed his eyes, tears streaming down his face. He didn't know who was coming—human or alien, friend or foe. It didn't matter. He was going to live.

  I'll see Sarah again. I'll tell her I'm sorry. I'll tell her I love her.

  Everything was going to be okay.

  Day 11

  The ship that found him was not human.

  Alex knew this the moment it came into view through the cracked viewport. The design was wrong—all sweeping curves and bioluminescent panels, like nothing he'd ever seen before. No angular hull plating, no visible weapons systems, no running lights. Just an organic-looking vessel that seemed to glow with its own inner light, pulsing with life.

  Aliens.

  The word bounced around his skull, refusing to be believed. He'd spent five years in space, five years exploring the frontier of human expansion. He'd heard rumors of alien contact, of mysterious signals from the void, but he'd never seen proof. None of them had.

  And now, lying broken and dying in an escape pod, he was about to meet them.

  I should be afraid. Why am I not afraid?

  Maybe he was. Maybe the fear was just buried under the relief of survival, under the desperate gratitude of someone who'd been given a second chance. Whatever the reason, he didn't feel fear. He felt curiosity. Wonder.

  After everything, at least I'll know what's out there. At least I'll see something new.

  The ship was large—maybe three times the size of the Prometheus. Its hull was covered in strange markings, patterns that seemed to shift and flow like water. Alex watched, mesmerized, as it drew closer, its movements slow and deliberate.

  It's going to rescue me. Or kill me. Or...

  He didn't know. He couldn't know. All he could do was watch and wait, the prisoner of whatever fate had in store.

  The ship extended a tether—a thin line of light that connected to the escape pod's hull. Alex felt a gentle tug, pulling him closer, drawing him in like a fish on a line. The sensation was strange, almost organic, like being swallowed by some great beast.

  This is it. Whatever happens, this is it.

  The tether locked into place with a soft click. Through the viewport, Alex could see a hatch opening in the alien ship's hull—a doorway into the unknown.

  He thought about fighting. About trying to escape, to find another way. But his body was broken, his strength gone. He couldn't even stand, let alone run. All he could do was lie there and wait for whatever came next.

  Whatever they want, I'll deal with it. I survived the drift. I can survive this.

  The hatch dilated, revealing a chamber beyond. Three figures entered—tall, slender, moving with a grace that seemed almost fluid. Their skin was gray, tinged with purple in the emergency lighting. Their eyes were large, dark, and infinitely deep.

  Aliens.

  They were real. They were here. And they were looking at him.

  One of them spoke—a series of melodic tones, like wind chimes in a storm. Alex didn't understand, of course. The language was completely foreign, nothing like anything he'd heard before. But the tone was unmistakable.

  Curiosity. That's what I'm hearing. Curiosity.

  They're studying me. Just like I'm studying them.

  The tallest of the three stepped forward, reaching out with one long, slender arm. Its fingers—four of them, each longer than a human's—closed around Alex's wrist, examining him like a scientist examining a specimen.

  Alex tried to pull away, but the alien's grip was firm. Not painful, but unyielding. He was trapped.

  They're going to experiment on me. Cut me open. Study me like a bug.

  The fear finally came, rising in his chest like a tide. He could feel his heart racing, his breath quickening, his body responding to the threat.

  Calm down. Calm down. They could have killed me already if that's what they wanted.

  The alien spoke again, this time in a different tone. Something that sounded almost like a question. Alex shook his head, indicating he didn't understand.

  The alien seemed to consider this for a moment. Then it released his wrist and turned to speak with the others. Their conversation was rapid, a flurry of tones and gestures. Alex could only watch, helpless, as they discussed his fate.

  What are they going to do with me?

  He didn't have to wait long to find out.

  One of the other aliens produced a small device—a cylinder about the size of a pen. It emitted a soft hum, and Alex felt a sudden, overwhelming heaviness. His eyes grew heavy. His thoughts slowed.

  No. Not now. Not yet.

  But the drug was already taking effect. The world was fading, slipping away like sand through his fingers. The last thing he saw before the darkness took him was the alien's face, leaning close, its large dark eyes studying him with something that might have been pity.

  At least they're not cruel. At least this won't hurt.

  Day 12

  When Alex woke, he was no longer in the escape pod.

  He was lying on a surface that was neither hard nor soft—somewhere in between, like a gel that had molded itself to his body. The lighting was dim, a soft blue glow that seemed to come from the walls themselves. The air was different, richer somehow, more alive. It tasted clean. Pure.

  He tried to sit up, and this time, the pain was less. His ribs still ached, but the sharp fire had dulled to a manageable throb. His arm, too, felt better—bandaged, splinted, somehow repaired. The aliens had worked on him, fixed what they could.

  They fixed me. Or at least tried to. Whatever they want with me, they want me functional.

  He looked around, taking in his surroundings. He was in a small room, maybe ten feet by ten feet, with smooth, curved walls. There was no door that he could see—just a seamless surface where a door should be. No windows, either. Just the soft blue glow, pulsing gently like a heartbeat.

  Where am I? A cell? A hospital? A laboratory?

  The question echoed in his mind, without an answer. He remembered the aliens—their strange faces, their melodic voices, the device that had knocked him out. After that, nothing.

  How long was I unconscious? Hours? Days?

  He didn't know. The sense of time had been stripped away, along with everything else.

  I don't know where I am. I don't know what they want. I don't know if I'll ever see Earth again.

  But I'm alive. I'm alive, and that's more than I expected.

  Alex swung his legs over the edge of the gel-bed and stood. The room spun for a moment, but he steadied himself, waiting for the dizziness to pass. When it did, he took a step toward the wall.

  Nothing happened.

  He stepped again. Still nothing.

  What's the trick? How do I get out?

  He examined the walls more closely, running his good hand over the smooth surface. It was warm to the touch, almost body temperature, and it seemed to pulse faintly with that blue light. There were no handles, no buttons, no visible seams.

  This is a cell. They're keeping me prisoner.

  The realization settled into his gut like a stone. He was a prisoner now, held by aliens he'd never imagined, in a part of space he'd never known existed. He had no idea where they were taking him, or what they planned to do with him.

  Am I a specimen? A curiosity? A slave?

  Sarah.

  He thought about her again—about all the people he'd left behind. His mother. His brother. His friends on the Prometheus. They'd never know what happened to him. They'd think he'd died in the explosion, just another casualty of the cascade failure.

  Maybe that's for the best.

  The thought was bitter, but true. At least they'd have closure. At least they wouldn't have to wonder.

  Unless they're still out there. Unless Sarah made it too.

  The hope was thin, fragile, almost nonexistent. But he held onto it anyway. It was all he had.

  The wall in front of him suddenly shimmered, and a section of it slid open. Alex stumbled back, his heart hammering, as a figure entered the room.

  It was one of the aliens—tall, slender, with those enormous dark eyes. It was carrying something in its hands, a small container that it set down on the floor before stepping back.

  Food. They're feeding me. That's something, at least.

  The alien spoke, its melodic voice filling the room. Alex didn't understand the words, but he understood the gesture. The container was food—or at least, what the aliens thought food was. A strange, luminescent paste that glowed faintly in the dim light.

  Alex stared at it, his stomach growling. He was starving—how long had it been since he'd eaten? But the thought of eating alien food, of putting something so strange into his body, made his skin crawl.

  What if it's poisonous? What if it's some kind of test?

  I'm already their prisoner. If they wanted to kill me, they could have done it already.

  The alien seemed to understand his hesitation. It made a sound that might have been a sigh, then turned and walked back to the door.

  It paused at the threshold, looking back at Alex with those impossibly deep eyes. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then the alien spoke again, a single word—or what Alex assumed was a word—in a tone that was almost gentle.

  Then the door slid shut behind it, leaving Alex alone with his thoughts and the glowing paste that might or might not be food.

  He stood there for a long time, staring at the container, thinking about everything that had happened. The escape pod. The drift. The rescue. The captivity. It all seemed like a dream—a horrible, impossible dream that he couldn't wake up from.

  This is real. This is happening. And there's nothing I can do about it.

  He walked to the container, knelt down, and picked it up. The paste was warm, almost body temperature, and it smelled faintly of something he couldn't identify. Sweet, maybe. Or salty. Or both.

  At least I'm alive.

  That was something, wasn't it? After everything—after the explosion, the drift, the certain knowledge that he was going to die—he was still alive. That had to count for something.

  I'll get out of this. Somehow. I don't know how, but I will.

  He took a breath, closed his eyes, and took a bite.

  It tasted like nothing he'd ever eaten before—complex, layered, almost musical. It was disgusting and delicious all at once, and despite everything, he found himself taking another bite.

  Survival. That's what matters now.

  He ate in silence, staring at the walls of his cell, wondering what the next day would bring. The aliens had saved him, but why? What did they want from him? And what would they do when they got whatever it was they were looking for?

  I need to be patient. I need to wait for my chance.

  One step at a time. Survival first. Answers later.

  He finished the paste, set the container down, and lay back on the gel-bed. The blue light pulsed gently, like a heartbeat, like a promise.

  I'm alive. For now, that's enough.

  He closed his eyes and let the darkness take him, not knowing what the morning would bring, not knowing if he'd ever see Earth again.

  But he was alive. And as long as he was alive, there was hope.

  Day 14

  The days blurred together in the soft blue glow of the alien cell. Alex lost track of time—there was no day or night, no way to mark the hours. He ate when the aliens brought food, slept when exhaustion took him, and spent the rest of his time trying to piece together what had happened.

  How many days now? A week? Two? It feels like forever. It feels like yesterday.

  The aliens came every few hours, sometimes to bring food, sometimes to run tests. They were gentle, almost curious, examining his body with their strange instruments. They seemed fascinated by his physiology—his bones, his blood, his heartbeat. They took samples, recorded data, and left without a word.

  They're studying me. Cataloging me. Like a museum exhibit.

  What do they want from me?

  He still didn't know. But he was beginning to suspect.

  They took me for a reason. There's something they want. Something they're looking for.

  Information? Technology? Or something else?

  Day 16

  On what might have been the sixteenth day—he'd been counting meals, roughly three a day, and he was on his forty-eighth—Alex heard a sound that broke the monotony. Voices. Human voices.

  He froze, listening, barely daring to breathe. The voices were coming from somewhere outside his cell—muffled, distorted, but definitely human. English. A woman's voice, specifically, speaking in rapid, urgent tones.

  "—the Collectors took everything—supplies, equipment—"

  "—not responding to transmissions—"

  "—we're just cargo now—"

  The woman's voice broke off, replaced by a sob. Then silence.

  Alex stood there, his heart pounding, his mind racing. Collectors. That's what the humans called them. Alien pirates, maybe. Slavers.

  They take people. They take everything.

  He thought about the alien vessel, the way it had harvested his escape pod like a hunter collecting prey. The gouges on its hull—the marks of battles fought and won. This wasn't a rescue ship. It was a raider, a scavenger, a thief.

  And now I am its cargo. A prize to be sold. A specimen to be studied.

  Sarah.

  He thought about her again—about the last words they'd exchanged, the argument that had ended with her walking away. He hadn't said goodbye. Hadn't told her he loved her. Hadn't told her how much she meant to him.

  I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

  The tears came, and this time, he didn't fight them. He let them fall, let the grief overtake him, let the weight of his losses crush him.

  But even as I grieve, I'm not finished. I'm not done.

  A small ember of defiance flickered in his chest. He wouldn't give up. He couldn't. As long as there was breath in his body, there was hope.

  I will get out of here. I will find a way home.

  He didn't know how. He didn't know when. But he knew it was true.

  The door slid open, and one of the aliens entered. It carried a container of food, as always, and set it down on the floor. But this time, it didn't leave immediately. Instead, it stood there, watching Alex with those dark, unreadable eyes.

  They're watching me. They know I'm upset. Do they care? Do they understand?

  Alex wiped his tears and stood tall, meeting the alien's gaze. He wouldn't show fear. He wouldn't show weakness. Not anymore.

  I am not cargo. I am a human being. And I will survive.

  The alien made a sound—low, rumbling, almost like a purr. Then it turned and left, the door sliding shut behind it.

  Alex stood alone in the blue glow, his jaw set, his heart hard.

  Survival. That's what matters now.

  And he would survive. No matter what it took. No matter how long it took.

  They think they own me. They think I'm theirs.

  They don't know me. They don't know what I'm capable of.

  I'm going to get out of here. I'm going to find the others. And I'm going to find a way home.

  No matter what.

  Day 20

  The days continued, each one a battle, each one a small victory. Alex learned the aliens' routines—feeding times, examination times, the brief periods when he was left alone. He learned to read their gestures, to understand their moods, to anticipate their actions.

  They're not monsters. They're just... different. Alien, in the truest sense.

  But that doesn't mean I'll let them keep me.

  He began to plan. Slowly, carefully, in the quiet moments between tests and meals. He watched the aliens' movements, noting patterns, looking for weaknesses.

  The door opens the same way every time. There's always a moment when they're distracted. If I could just...

  It was a long shot. A desperate, almost impossible plan. But it was something. It was a goal.

  And as long as I have a goal, I have a reason to keep going.

  I will survive. I will escape. I will find my way back to Earth.

  No matter what it takes.

  Day 23

  One night—or what felt like night, in the endless blue glow—Alex lay on his gel bed and thought about Sarah.

  I'll see you again. I promise.

  He didn't know if he could keep that promise. He didn't know if it was even possible. But he believed it anyway.

  Belief is all I have. Belief and determination and the stubborn refusal to die.

  That's enough. That has to be enough.

  He closed his eyes and let the darkness take him, the ember of hope burning bright in his chest.

  I will survive.

  I will come home.

  No matter what.