I stagger, my breath shallow. A dull pain pulses in my right side. Warm blood trickles slowly down my ribs beneath my torn uniform. A broken rib, perhaps. Or worse. I force myself to remain upright despite the exhaustion and shock threatening to overwhelm me. I am the Admiral. I cannot falter. I was trained, almost engineered, to command a ship like this. Admittedly, not to handle a crash—let alone one with no survivors—but even so. My condition is secondary for now. If I can walk, it means there’s nothing immediately fatal.
“Leia... are there any drones or droids that survived? Any intact sections of the ship?”
An interminable silence. Then her voice, calmer than it should be, finally responds:
“Analysis in progress...”
I remain motionless, gazing at the massive debris stretching endlessly around me. Pieces of the Colossus, stripped of its former majesty, lie shattered and scattered like the bones of a fallen giant. The wind whistles through the cracks and crevices of metal plates. I find a sheltered spot to sit, desperately needing a moment of rest.
“Result: 17.3% of droids have survived. Functionality varies. Active autonomous modules detected within a two-kilometer radius. Some are converging on your position.”
A wave of relief mixed with apprehension washes over me. The droids... built to ensure the safety and operation of the colony. Their sophistication is unparalleled. But here, in this alien environment, what of their programming? They rely on a central system to function collectively. If the servers are down, they must have defaulted to the same ones Leia is using.
“Leia, what do you mean by ‘variable functionality’?”
“Units are damaged or altered by gravitational and electromagnetic disruptions caused by the crash and preceding events. Some functionalities may be unstable.”
Exactly what I feared. The droids are incredibly resilient, but even they aren’t immune to malfunctions in such extreme conditions. I’m already grateful to hear that approximately 17% of the units survived; that must amount to a few hundred.
“And the ship? The generator?”
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“The Colossus’s central generator is intact. It is located 3.8 kilometers northeast of your position. Terrain and debris dispersion complicate access. Other partially intact sections include: emergency communications room B-2 and the preparation area of the mess hall.”
The generator is intact. It’s a glimmer of hope amidst the desolation, overshadowing the other findings. With it, I could reactivate some systems—perhaps even establish a semblance of a base. It’s no surprise it survived; the reactor is a masterpiece of technology more valuable than the ship itself. Encased in an enormous shielded compartment spanning dozens of meters, it’s built to withstand unimaginable forces. These three kilometers feel like an eternity in my current state. How will I move this...
A mechanical sound interrupts my thoughts. I turn abruptly, one hand instinctively reaching for my hip—where nothing resides, not even a rudimentary weapon. I have nothing but my decorative belt.
A droid.
It advances toward me, emerging from the shadows of a mound of debris. A standard maintenance unit, standing about two meters tall. Its chassis is marred with burns and cracks, yet it appears operational. Its central eye emits a flickering blue light, and its articulated arms end in human-like hands. It’s a humanoid model.
“Autonomous units activated. Admiral detected. Priority assistance engaged.”
Its voice is monotone, but what it represents fills me with a renewed sense of purpose. I am not entirely alone.
Behind it, two more forms slowly emerge. A heavy transport unit capable of lifting massive debris and a humanoid combat droid, its armor still bearing the military insignias of the Colossus. The latter is armed, and though its movements are fluid, part of its plating appears melted from the intense pressures it endured.
I lean against a chunk of metal to catch my breath, scrutinizing my mechanical allies. They’re here, but they’re just three units out of thousands. For now, they’ll have to suffice.
“Leia, activate coordination of the remaining droids. Priority: gather information about the terrain. I need locations of operational droids, recoverable resources, and any immediate threats.”
“Order transmitted. Synchronization in progress.”
I can’t afford to wait for a full report; I trust Leia to handle the details. My mind races, trying to devise an immediate course of action.
“Leia, secondary priority: maps and a secure route to the generator. We must secure it; doing so will give us a fighting chance to regain some semblance of control.”
“Trajectory calculated. Warning: high concentration of debris in the area. Hostile conditions likely.”
I am exhausted, but one thought dominates my mind more than my own condition. Losing the reactor means losing any chance of rebuilding here. It’s a near-autonomous fusion engine, a source of virtually unlimited energy crafted over centuries of research and at the cost of billions of credits. Without it, Leia’s servers will go offline forever, the droids will cease to function, and I’ll be alone.
Utterly alone.