The pod spans the chamber behind me. Its presence presses at perception, a weight behind thought, a sensation of awareness gathering behind dark glass. I keep my focus low. The console remains a solvable problem. The pod remains outside that category.
The console responds to touch.
Nothing about it resembles Coalition design. Glyphs rise from the surface in liquid teal, rearranging under my attention. Translation arrays stutter, attempt alignment, and fail. The system refuses linguistic parity.
"K-Seven, read this," I order, staring at the shifting, liquid teal glyphs that refuse to align with any known linguistic database.
"Negative," the drone replies instantly, prompting my sharp command to attempt a partial read despite the interference.
"Fragmentary syllabic recognition," K-Seven reports after a tense pause, its optical sensors cycling rapidly. "Coherence absent. Unit generates approximation."
"Proceed," I urge, tapping my fingers impatiently against my thigh while the drone finalizes its rudimentary translation.
"Unit recommends avoidance of primary glyph activation," it finally advises with a dire, mechanical flatness that makes the hairs on my arms stand up.
"Understood," I reply evenly, deciding to trust the machine's caution as I deliberately steer my hands away from the primary glyph.
Instead, I place my bare palm against the console's primary interface. A sudden, sharp warmth bleeds from the alien metal into my skin, syncing with the frantic rhythm of my pulse. Alien systems usually don’t respond to humans, but the unfamiliar syntax ripples and rearranges itself, pulling me into its sub-menus. It feels less like hacking and more like the ship is recognizing a dormant resonance inside me. I map the flow logic, searching for a controllable branch while the console hums in approval.
Behind me, the chamber shifts, and a resonance rises from the dais.
The pod responds. Seams along its structure ignite from within, pale light spreading in measured bursts. The cradle emits a deeper mechanical hum. Deck plating beneath me trembles in slow pulses.
The recognition arrives a devastating second too late for me to react, the realization hitting me in the gut: the pod functions as a life support interface, drawing everything toward its center.
"K-Seven," I demand, my voice flattening into a harsh, breathless rasp as the implications settle into my stomach. "Explain this right now."
Its response fractures. "Full-spectrum cascade initiated. Power routing reversed. Distribution redirected inward. Pod receives total feed. System no longer functions as node. Structure behaves as a life support interface."
Stabilization collapses across the chamber.
I step back from the pedestal. The pistol rises without conscious decision. Air tightens in my throat.
"Reverse it," I force out. "Restore previous routing."
"Sequence exceeds rollback threshold. System self-sustains. External interface lacks authority."
"There exists a reversal path," I insist, scouring the alien interface for any sequence that might undo the catastrophic routing.
"Attempt ongoing," K-Seven warns, its metallic voice stuttering with erratic static as the ship fights back. "Stability degrading."
I move toward the nearest bulkhead panel and strike it once. Again. Again. Systems reject input. Every exit point holds firm under unified control logic.
The chamber seals itself in complete structural agreement. Amber light spreads beneath every step I take.
"Leave before activation," I whisper, pivoting back from the bulkhead. "Leave before activation."
Old salvage warnings surface in memory—accounts of engineered war constructs sealed within derelict vessels, entities built for conflict at a planetary scale, and stories carried in dockside rumor and half-dismissed by crews that preferred disbelief over preparation.
The possibility resolves into certainty.
I return to the pedestal. The pod remains the only active feed source in the chamber. The console remains the only interface with system-wide reach. Control still exists somewhere within its structure.
"K-Seven, restore sub-menu access," I demand, desperate to regain a foothold as the alien code fiercely overrides my previous commands.
"Attempting restoration," the drone replies, its voice fraying with digital static. "Interface rewriting underway. Stability loss accelerating."
"Maintain process," I grit out, keeping my hands steady over the shifting glyphs despite the mounting chaotic instability of the chamber.