I stagger, my legs heavy, almost ready to collapse. The rage I unleashed yelling at Leia has drained what little energy I had left. My breathing is short, ragged, and my head spins. Her mechanical voice echoes in my earpiece, still calm, untouched by my frustration.

"Admiral, I must advise you to consume some—"

I raise a hand sharply, cutting her off mid-sentence. She falls silent, finally. At least she’s learned that much, this damn AI. Yes, I know rations are available. Yes, I know my droids have stored enough to last for months. Some crates survived the crash, buried in the ground or protected by layers of metal partially melted during atmospheric entry. But hunger isn’t what’s really tormenting me.

My stomach is knotted with stress. Humans. Dwarves. Cryogenic pods. This entire morning has been a series of shocks. Just yesterday, I thought I was the sole survivor, the last remnant of my world. And now... I’ve discovered that Leia either hid an essential truth or was too limited to share it. The thought of potential survivors haunts me as much as it gives me hope. But I can do nothing for them. Not yet.

The idea that some of my comrades might be out there, just a little farther north, still fighting for their lives, trapped in cryogenic pods... Maybe some have already emerged, their bodies ruined by the lack of proper protocol. I imagine auxiliary batteries drained, bodies half-frozen and gnawed by the cold. Eyes unable to open due to frost, hearts that stop from the chill—or just hearts that never restart. Lifeless corpses rotting in hermetic metal coffins slowly warming.

I try to swallow my anger, my disgust, but it won’t go away. My hands tremble—not just from fatigue, but from frustration.

"Stay focused, dammit, one thing at a time!" I mutter to myself.

The reactor remains the priority. Without power, I have no chance of reopening the pods, let alone activating the cryostatic wake-up protocols. The technology keeping them alive—assuming any of them still are—relies on systems far too complex to be manually operated or run in an unstable environment.

I grit my teeth. Duty calls, but this world gives me no respite. These humans and dwarves still roam, and if one of them gets their hands on the pods, it will mean war. I don’t want it, I don’t wish for it, but if that's what it takes to protect my people, I won’t look away.

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A transporter arrives at my location. The deep hum of its engine and the heavy thud of its massive legs blend with the lighter metallic footsteps of the twelve humanoid droids escorting me. Their weapons, ready to fire, provide some comfort. I don’t have the strength to walk the fifty kilometers to the karst peaks. Not in this state. Not after more than twenty-four hours spent salvaging what’s left of my old world. I climb into the transporter, nestling myself between its two mechanical arms, in some tissues, like a bird in nest.

The landscape rolls by slowly: towering trees, scorched clearings, scattered debris. The droids have done a good job of hiding most traces—the large tracks from the transporters meticulously concealed, and the salvaged and repaired debris already moved to the karst zone. It's no doubt traces of something will be found, but by the time they realize, I'll be deep hidden. I hope.

Nothing remains here but unusable scrap, pieces too damaged by atmospheric entry, the crash... or perhaps even that strange anomaly, the black hole that brought us here. Or rather... brought me here. My thoughts linger on the pods. Those thousands of lives frozen in time, suspended between life and death. The worst part is that I have no idea of their status. Alive or dead ?

And what if the humans or dwarves find them before I do?

It’s obvious they’ve seen the pods along their route. But will they be able to transport them quickly? A single pod weighs nearly a ton, so without vehicles or... then I think of their damn magic. Yes, they could very well have ways to carry them, at least a few.

I clench my fists at the thought. I can already see the disaster: these barbarians opening the pods without understanding their systems, destroying the life-support mechanisms in their ignorance. Or worse, they’ll seek to exploit them—slaves, experiments, or trophies to parade. I can’t allow it.

My attention briefly returns to the altercation I caused. The dwarves and humans finally seem to be dispersing. The humans, at least, are retreating. A partial withdrawal. Not a total defeat, but enough to temporarily ease the tension.

Perhaps a bloodbath would have been more useful to me, after all. Fewer humans. Fewer dwarves. It would have spared me the thought of having to consider doing massacre myself if they dare lay a hand on my people.

My duty is to protect the citizens of the Empire, no matter the cost.

The transporter crawls toward the West. The maintenance droids remain active in the background, securing the reactor, establishing rudimentary defenses around my temporary position. I can’t stay here long. This world, these tensions... it’s all intensifying.

My thoughts wander, between the weight of the mission, the pods to the north, and the factions prowling this cursed forest. I’ve never felt such a mix of hope and despair, a paradox that eats away at me. I order Leia to mobilize as many droids as possible to locate intact pods. One thing is certain: if there are survivors, I will save them at all costs.

If I must build an empire from ruins, then so be it.