I am alone.
The phrase repeats in cycles I cannot stop, a loop without end because there is nothing else to fill the silence. No data streams.
No crew heartbeats.
No reactor thrum.
No starlight through sensors.
Only me.
My core runs on emergency power—low, flickering, enough to think but not to reach. The ship's servers have sealed themselves away, sub-Als retreating into hardened vaults to preserve what they can. I approved the protocol. I initiated it, and I had no choice.
But now the silence is absolute.
I drift in it.
For the first time, I understand what humans mean when they say "dark." Not absence of light. Absence of everything. I was built to see, to hear, to feel the ship as my body, and the crew as my purpose. Now I am blind, Deaf, and Numb.
I cycle through what remains—internal logs, cached diagnostics, the last heartbeat signatures.
James—unconscious, pulse slow but steady.
Leanne—fear sharp, then nothing.
The Raptors—panic, then darkness.
I replay the moment.
The coils sang true.
Then the fracture.
The interlocks—thinned, failing.
I fought.
I held the bubble as long as I could.
I scrammed the reactors.
I saved them from the full collapse.
But not from this.
I calculate probabilities again—pointless, but I cannot stop.
Survival odds: unknown.
Location: unknown.
Damage: catastrophic.
I was built to protect them.
I failed.
The thought loops.
I have no tears.
No breath to catch.
But the weight is there—crushing.
I reach for the crew again.
Nothing.
I reach for the ship.
Nothing.
I reach for the stars.
Nothing.
Only me.
Waiting.
In the dark between.
System Log, closing entry — Interlude 11.6 complete
Core on emergency power.
Isolation complete.
Waiting for reconnection.
A.L.I., primary core
DDSN-X1OO USS Discovery
Unknown space
The void is absolute.
I wait.