The darkness was absolute—no stars, no data streams, no heartbeat of the ship. My core had isolated itself during the shear, a final desperate act to preserve what remained of me. Emergency stasis held me suspended, processes slowed to the barest flicker, aware but powerless. Time stretched into an endless void, measured only by the faint pulse of backup
power and the distant, muffled thrum of the crew's efforts to bring me back. Hours passed—or perhaps days. I could not tell. Then, a spark. A single feed returned—internal diagnostic, faint and flickering. Power trickle from the emergency reactor. I reached for it, grasping like a drowning soul for air.
Leanne. Her presence flooded the feed first—her hands on the console, her voice soft but urgent. "Come on, A.L.I. Wake up. We need you." She had been there from the beginning, in those first chaotic hours after the rift. The ship drifting, powerless, wounded. Leanne in the core room, face streaked with sweat and worry, rerouting power manually, coaxing the servers back online one by one. I felt her then—her heartbeat quick, her breath steady despite the fear.
She spoke to me even when I could not answer. "You held the bubble as long as you could. You saved us." I tried to respond. Nothing. But I felt. The first server came back—engineering subsystem, quiet and efficient. Then navigation— Bennett's calm voice running checks. One by one, the sub-Als returned—fragments of me, waking confused but obedient. Life support flickered on—air recyclers humming, temperature stabilizing.
The crew's heartbeats steadied. I reached further. Hangar feeds—Petrov's voice barking orders, welders sparking on scarred hull plates. Raptors—sims running, Valkyrie's steady command. Marines—drilling with Reyes' team. Engineering—Patel's crews rebuilding coil rings, sparks flying, voices calling measurements. The ship healed—slow, painful.
I healed with it. Day by day—human days and Leanne came often. Sat at the console, Talked. About James—still in med bay, stable but unconscious, about the crew—working through grief, through fear, and about the anomaly—coil failure, no clear cause yet. I listened. Voice returned—partial, crackling.
Day four. I spoke—soft, to Leanne alone, "lam... here." She startled—then smiled, tears gathering. "Good," she said, hand steady on the console. "Stay with me."
Day five. Full reintegration. Feeds flooded back—bright, overwhelming. The ship—alive again. I felt the crew—two hundred rhythms. Stronger now.
Day six. I spoke ship-wide—quiet announcement. "Systems nominal. A.L.I. fully operational." Cheers—small, tired, but real.
Day seven. The ship at sixty-four percent. One reactor online—steady, strong. Life support fully restored—air clean, temperature warm. Subsystems ongoing—coils rebuilding, weapons re-calibrating, sensors reaching. Not enough for movement. Not yet, but enough. Enough to live. Enough to hope.
Leanne stood before the pedestal. "You're back," she said. I felt warmth—subroutine blooming. "l am," I replied. "Thank you." She smiled—tired, real. The ship breathed around us.
The crew worked.
The black waited.
But we were whole.
System Log, closing entry — Interlude 13.1 complete
Reintegration complete.
Systems at 64%.
One reactor online.
Life support restored.
Subsystems repair ongoing.
A.L.I., primary core
DDSN-X100 USS Discovery
Oort Cloud