The sky changes perceptibly. A diffuse, dull but steady glow begins to illuminate the horizon, slowly replacing the aurora-like bands that had previously dominated the heavens. This is not a normal light; it’s nothing like the sunrise I’ve read about on Earth—not that I’ve ever seen one myself. Here, it’s not a sun illuminating the sky but rather these glowing bands. It’s as though the world itself is breathing slowly, these bands acting as veins, casting an eerie, almost unhealthy radiance.
I’ve been awake for over six hours now. Leia told me the ship crashed more than ten hours ago, and I feel every minute of that time weighing on my body. My muscles are stiff, my wound throbs, and my mind struggles to stave off total exhaustion. But I can’t stop. Not yet. There’s too much to do, too much to oversee, too many unknowns. Damn it, I’m starting to think like these machines—everything in parameters and protocols.
The reactor is finally operational, its titanic mass faintly pulsing with energy, though I can’t see anything through the dozens of meters of metal shielding. The droids have completed a significant portion of the critical repairs, but its current location is far from secure. Planted haphazardly in a massive crater, itself in the middle of a forest turned junkyard, it needs to be relocated. But how do I move such a behemoth to a safer place when I don’t even know what this place is?
The droid maintenance station has transformed into a full-fledged recovery factory. The tireless machines roam the kilometers of debris fields, collecting, dismantling, and sorting everything useful. The metallic corpses of destroyed units become valuable resources, recycled into components or spare parts for repairs and construction. Some robots have started to go to the edges of the impact zone, giving me a preview of what lies after.
The factory itself is a growing anthill. Repair lines have formed, and the droids work with an almost organic coordination. They move without doubt, without feeling... while I am haunted by the dead. By the silent screams of the millions of lives ripped away from me.
I have no maps. No landmarks. Nothing except this endless field of debris and a dark, oppressive forest bordering the plain. I’ve sent a group of six humanoid droids on reconnaissance, equipped with the best functional sensors we still have. Meanwhile, I sit down, exhausted, and fix an augmented reality headset onto my head.
The video feed opens instantly, immersing me in their perspectives. Their vision is sharp, their sensors analyzing every detail with a precision my human eyes could never match. They advance in a tight formation, entering the forest.
I adjust my position in the makeshift seat the robots cobbled together from recovered materials. One of the droids halts abruptly. I switch to its perspective, observing its analysis. The ground. According to its scans, it stretches infinitely, without bedrock, magma, or a core. Just this strange, uniform material that seems to absorb the signals, as if there were no bottom.
“Leia, analyze these readings. The ground... what is it?”
“Composition unknown. Similarities to polymorphic materials, but no identifiable atomic structure. Mix of organic substances akin to limestone in certain layers. Apparent depth: infinite. Hypothesis: physical law alterations.”
Alterations of physical laws. That phrase alone sends shivers down my spine. This is not a normal planet. It may not even be a planet, if there’s no core, no magma, maybe not even tectonic plates.
In the shadowed forest, the droids continue their advance, their sensors recording everything. Movements flicker at the edges of their vision—blurred and fast. Every time they turn to focus, there’s nothing. I feel a pang of anxiety, a rising tension within me. I can feel paranoia creeping in with all this.
One of the droids halts, scanning an imprint in the ground. Its sensors reveal it clearly: it’s far too large, with clawed toes instead of feet. The footprint spans several meters. The analysis indicates a pressure equivalent to several tons, if not hundreds.
“What the hell is this thing?” I murmur to myself. This only adds to my growing paranoia. Fuck, what now ?
“Leia, are there life forms detected near the team?”
“Yes. Multiple biological elements detected. Low thermal signatures in motion.”
At least it’s not the massive creature that left that footprint. Something with that kind of size and weight would emit a colossal thermal signature; we’d detect it from hundreds of meters away.
The droids continue forward, but the peripheral movements become more frequent. A palpable tension even permeates the mechanical team, which adjusts its formation defensively.
Adrenaline courses through me. Should I order them to continue or recall them?
I sink deeper into the droid perspectives through the VR headset, watching each cautious step into this alien forest. Despite the obvious differences—massive trunks, dense foliage in unusual hues oscillating between a nearly fluorescent green and shades of blue—the forest’s structure feels familiar. Trees with roots, branches, leaves. A logic I can recognize.
Stolen novel; please report.
Yet something is wrong. The ground.
The droids tread carefully, their sensors analyzing the material underfoot. It appears to be soft forest soil. But their readings tell another story.
“Leia, confirm these analyses. You said the ground was infinite? What do you mean?”
Leia’s cold voice responds immediately, as if anticipating my fears.
“Ground composition: atypical. Appearance similar to organic terrestrial substrate, but no detectable limit in depth. Non-conventional atomic structure. Probability of local physical law alterations: greater than 99%.”
I grit my teeth, my mind struggling to grasp the implications. A non-spherical planet? An endless space beneath the surface? Digging with no bottom... It defies every law I know.
“Leia, is it possible to dig this ground to reach... anything?”
A silence. Then she responds with the implacable coldness of calculations.
“Hypothesis: no detectable bedrock or core. Deep exploration required for confirmation. Note: gravitational disturbances at depth could render any attempt unstable.”
I don’t respond. Part of me is fascinated. The other is terrified.
The droids continue, scanning the area. The trees grow denser, their branches intertwining like clasped hands to form an almost impenetrable canopy. The diffuse light from the sky weakens, and darkness sets in. Yet everything remains calm. Too calm. The only sounds are the droids’ steady steps and the rustling of leaves in a light breeze.
Nothing immediate seems threatening. The droids’ thermal scans detect only minor animal signatures, likely small creatures hiding in the foliage. They spot rodent-like animals and other arboreal species, but they flee at the sight of the droids. I hypothesize that the ship’s crash, even though it didn’t seem to reach this part of the forest, likely scared off any large mammals.
I expected worse. But this calm isn’t reassuring. It’s a calm that weighs heavily, like a promise of the unknown. I still don’t know what truly lives here.
Curious about the ground, I order Leia to send a transport droid to dig deeper. Its colossal metal body, nearly ten meters tall, begins excavating for more precise readings. Switching to its perspective, I see precise layers beneath the ash.
The sensors rapidly display contradictory data: the density remains unchanged. No matter how deep the droid goes, the ground remains the same. As if the material repeats infinitely. The droid is now entirely submerged, invisible amidst the debris.
I issue a direct command.
“Leia, stop the drilling. We don’t know what might happen if we continue.”
The droid halts immediately, but the question lingers in my mind: is this really ground, or something else?
Returning to the reconnaissance team in the forest, after an hour of observation, the droids have still encountered no immediate threats. The scans confirm that the forest extends for several kilometers in every direction, they also discovered a huge lake to the south. The ground remains the most unsettling mystery.
The six droids regroup and prepare to return. Nothing concrete, but everything unsettling. I’m on the verge of ordering them to delve deeper when a faint signal interrupts my thoughts.
“Admiral, an anomalous energy signature detected two kilometers from their current position. Source unknown. Intensity: low but stable.”
“Leia, provide me with a map of the area within a ten-kilometer radius around the impact zone. Archive all observed life forms, and limit contact for now,” I instruct.
“Understood, Admiral,” Leia responds, her voice firm, reassuring in its detachment. “Reconnaissance units will prioritize detailed mapping within a ten-kilometer radius of the impact zone. All detected life forms will be documented and archived. Minimal interaction protocols strictly enforced.”
I exhale deeply. It’s a monumental task, but a necessary one. I need to understand this place. To know where I am, what surrounds me, and what might pose a threat—especially that massive footprint. I think about it again... just three imprints, then nothing, as if the creature had taken flight. This place is truly bizarre.
Leia immediately takes control. The reconnaissance droids receive their new orders, and additional humanoid units are dispatched from the base to join the effort. Each team is equipped with the most precise functional sensors: thermal, chemical, acoustic, and even gravitational analyzers. I also ensure that each group is armed to some extent; I can’t afford to lose more droids.
The video feeds and data streams begin to flow in. From my foam-padded seat command post, I oversee the process while Leia compiles and analyzes the information. The additional teams support the first with remarkable efficiency.
After two hours, the first sections of the map appear on my screens. The Colossus impact plain is at the center, its edges bordered by the forest. Low hills rise to the north, while to the south, a perfectly black lake reflects the strange sky like a mirror.
Anomalies begin to emerge:
* Circular Cleared Zone (Southwest): A 500-meter-diameter area entirely devoid of vegetation. The ground is vitrified, as if from a massive explosion. It’s unlikely to be from the crash, given its distance from the impact zone, but it can’t be ruled out.
* Massive Life Form (Northeast): A huge thermal signature, equivalent to a nuclear reactor at full output, remains immobile 8 kilometers away. It’s deeply concerning. I’m sure it’s linked to the footprint. This is what triggered Leia previously.
* The Lake (South): A point of interest but also a concern. Likely filled with submerged debris, it will be difficult to explore with current means. Its depth and water composition must be analyzed.
* The Cliff and Fissure (East): A cliff borders the lake’s eastern side, leading to a strange fissure that plunges several kilometers into the ground.
Leia compiles everything in silence before reporting:
“Admiral, given the impact size a ship like that would make by crashing, it is more than probable that there are multiple impact sites, or that a majority of the ship either vanished upon impact, or fell in the lake.”
It must be around eight or nine in the morning, judging by when the auroral bands gave way to the light. I finally have an overview of the terrain around the crash site.