–Omega

Dylan approached the hatch with more caution than he wanted to admit. Every sealed section so far had been a gamble — sometimes the doors swung open with a sigh of stale air, sometimes they tried to rip themselves open with the force of a hurricane. He still remembered the roar from that one hatch two days ago.

“Tertiary Control Access,” Rachel read aloud, fingers brushing the etched metal. “Well… better than another storage closet.”

“Lights are green this time,” Dylan said hopefully, though Garth was already at work.

“Just cracking it first,” Garth muttered, fitting the crank handle and easing the door open by a finger’s width. No howling wind. No pressure alarm. Just stillness.

He cranked harder and the hatch groaned aside, revealing a dim but intact room. Lights flickered on in sequence, like something waking up after a very long sleep.

Cold air washed over them.

They slipped inside.

The room was huge — a wide semi-circle thirty meters across. The flat wall behind them framed the hatch. The far wall curved away in a graceful arc lined with enormous dark screens, like silent windows into nothing. Two long benches faced them, ten seats apiece, each with dead consoles they’d seen elsewhere in the Ark. Dust lay across everything, undisturbed.

But at the front, elevated slightly, stood a single padded seat — and a console. No buttons. No controls. Just a glowing outline of a hand, with a red circle in the palm.

Dylan stared at his own hand. The faint symbol burned into his skin — the one that started all of this — matched it perfectly.

He raised his hand toward Rachel and Garth.

“Maybe… you two should step back first?” he said, half-joking, half-terrified.

Rachel snorted. “If this goes wrong, we’ll die together. Just do it.”

Garth nodded once, jaw set.

Dylan sat. Slowly. His hand hovered a moment over the outline — and then he pressed it down.

The console reacted instantly.

Light rippled outward in delicate lines, forming patterns like circuitry blooming beneath glass. A soft tone sounded, harmonic and strangely beautiful. The mist formed next — a swirl of light like steam rising in zero-gravity — coalescing, shaping, almost breathing.

And then it became a man.

 

Not flesh — a projection. An elderly figure suspended above the console as though standing amid fog, dressed in a deep blue uniform. Waist-up only. Sharp eyes. Calm. A face that suggested wisdom, patience… and authority.

He looked directly at Dylan.

“Greetings, Crewman.” The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. “You have accessed primary core command. Time elapsed since last contact is four hundred twelve years, nine days, seventeen hours. Mission time is D plus four million, five hundred twenty-three thousand, four hundred seventy-two decimal six nine hours.”

The three stared, frozen.

Rachel found her voice first. It trembled.
“Who… who are you?”

The figure did not answer. It only watched Dylan.

“Who are you?” Dylan echoed.

“I am Command Interface Omega — designated caretaker of Ark operations.” His tone was precise, emotionless, ancient. “You are not recognized command personnel. Please state authorization protocol.”

“I… don’t have one.” Dylan swallowed. “We’re from Cypress Corners. We’ve barely been able to access anything. We—”

Omega shifted, a subtle tilt of his head as though processing.

“Cypress Corners: Dome sixty-one. Classification — low-technology agricultural habitat. Offline since events at mission time D plus nine hundred eleven thousand, six hundred sixty-four decimal zero. Crew identification token registered to Security Officer Sheila McEnarny. Last log entry: ‘Taking refuge in sixty-one. We will try to reestablish com—’”

Omega paused mid-sentence, as if the log itself faded.

Then his tone changed — still even, but urgent.

“Emergency access granted. Vital systems are in critical failure. Primary navigation offline. Remote node communication limited. Domes twenty-two, thirty-nine, forty-four, and fifty-one offline and likely exposed to vacuum.”

A beat of silence.

“There is a critical alarm: The Ark is on course to its destination. However, with navigation and propulsion offline there is an eighty-nine point nine percent probability of collision with the system primary. Time to impact — five decimal two five years. Corrective action is required.”

Dylan blinked. “Collision with… what?”

“The system primary,” Omega replied. “A G-class yellow dwarf star. A collision, even a near miss, will destroy the Ark and all passengers.”

Garth stepped forward, voice breaking. “Can it be fixed?”

Omega remained still. Silent. Processing? Damaged?

“Answer him,” Dylan whispered, and the figure responded as though obeying a command.

“I am… fragmented,” Omega said. A shimmer of static cut across his projection. “Core logic systems damaged. Memory matrices incomplete. Yes — the Ark can be repaired. We will require more crew. I will assist. We must act quickly.”

A faint flicker passed through the room — lights dimming, then returning.

“The Ark must survive.”