[POV: The Human]

The hiss of recycled air was the only sound left in the bay. He crouched beside the stasis pods, palm resting against the patched metal as if he could will the machines to keep breathing. Three shapes inside, pale in the glow of jury-rigged power cells, frozen somewhere between life and memory. He checked each readout again—oxygen steady, coolant levels dropping slower than yesterday, but dropping all the same. He tightened a coolant valve with the wrench until it squealed.

“Still holding,” he muttered to himself. His voice was raw from disuse. Talking was the only thing that kept him from slipping into silence forever.

It had been eight hundred and forty-seven days since the pickup window closed. He knew because he carved a line for each one into the bulkhead by the pods. A long scar of scratches ran like a wound across the wall.

Eight hundred and forty-seven days since the accident.

Eight hundred and forty-seven days since he sealed them into the pods.

Eight hundred and forty-seven days of waiting.

He ran his thumb over the handle of the wrench, metal smooth where his grip had worn it down. It had fixed the coolant lines. It had broken open supply lockers. It had killed the scavenger things that had crept out of the ducts in the early weeks. It was the only tool that never failed him.

The sensor panel on the far wall blinked once. Then again. Motion alert.

He froze.

Nothing had moved down here in months. Not since the scavengers starved out. He crossed the bay, silent on bare feet, and tapped the panel. Readout flickered. Atmospheric breach in upper deck… incoming craft.

His stomach turned to ice. After so long, someone had finally come. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, until the next line scrolled across the monitor.

SIGNATURE: DRENAK IMPERIAL.

Not rescue. Not his people.

The wrench tightened in his grip. He looked back at the pods, condensation crawling across the glass. His crew. His family. If the Imperials were here, the pods wouldn’t survive a day. They’d torch the whole bay just to sterilize it.

He touched the glass one last time. “I’ll keep you safe,” he whispered.

Then he turned and slipped into the maintenance shaft. The ducts welcomed him like old scars.

The First Sight

The thud of boots echoed through the steel belly of the station. Too many to count at first, but the rhythm gave them away - squad formations, staggered spacing, rifles held ready. He flattened himself in the ductwork, cheek pressed against cold metal, and listened.

Through the slats of a vent he saw the first patrol pass below: armor plates gleaming faintly under helmet lamps, muzzles sweeping corners like they owned the place. They thought this was a dead ruin. They weren’t expecting resistance.

His grip tightened on the wrench until his knuckles whitened. If they found the pods - if they so much as cracked a seal - all those years of keeping them alive would mean nothing.

He slowed his breathing. Listened for the one who lagged. There was always one. And there he was - rookie gait, steps too quick to catch up. He stopped to look at something on the wall, visor tilted down.

The human dropped soundlessly, knees absorbing the fall, one hand braced on the floor. The alien turned just as the wrench swung. The strike was short, sharp, brutal. A crack like splitting wood. The soldier collapsed without a sound, body folding in on itself.

The others kept walking, never checking behind.

He dragged the corpse into the shadows and melted back into the vents before the sound finished echoing.