I don't know how long I've been sitting here, watching the drones work. Time feels... different now. With no need for sleep, no hunger (well, except for fuel), and no biological rhythms to mark the passage of hours, I'm left with nothing but the slow accumulation of Helium-3 in my reserves.

  "Thirty percent," I mutter to myself, watching the gauge creep upward. "Better than nothing, but not enough to get anywhere useful”

  I don’t know how I know that. Instinct? Coding? Both? It doesn’t matter, what matters is that the asteroid field is nearly depleted or at least of the rocks containing traces of Helium-3. My drones have been efficient, but there's only so much they can extract from these barren chunks of space rock.

  A proximity alert suddenly flashes across my interface with a soft chime echoing through my virtual bridge. Something's entered my scanner range.

  I redirect my sensors, focusing on the newcomer. It's small, attached to one of those barren space rocks.

  Debris? A satellite? Or something more interesting?

  I reroute power to my thrusters, feeling the strange sensation of movement as I push myself toward the unknown object. The motion is smooth, almost graceful. It felt nothing like the clumsy, gravity-bound movements of my former body. There's a certain elegance to zero-g maneuvering that I'm starting to appreciate.

  As I close the distance, my short-range scanners provide more detail. It was definitely artificial. A cylindrical object approximately three meters long, with a complex array of sensors.

  A probe. And judging by the scorch marks on its hull, it's seen better days. It made sense if this was a known exit from the slipstream. You would want to monitor who passed by. Better yet this might mean people nearby.

  "Hello there," I whisper, though there's no one to hear me. "What's your story?"

  I extended a manipulator arm which was yet another system I hadn't known I possessed until now. The appendage unfolds from my hull, telescoping outward with surprising dexterity. I grasp the probe carefully, drawing it closer for examination.

  The markings on its side are in a language I don't recognise but somehow, I understand them. Another quirk of my new existence, I suppose.

  Pathfinder X321Cartography Probe Property of the Terran Confederation

  Terran Confederation? That's... human, right? Earth-based? The name sounds both familiar and alien, like a half-remembered dream. I suppose language must have evolved since I was last awake.

  I run a deeper scan, looking for some kind of accessible data core. There was a small, shielded compartment at the probe's center. If I'm lucky, it contains navigational data, star charts, and maybe even communication protocols.

  I carefully pry open the access panel, revealing a compact data drive. My systems ping it automatically, and to my surprise, the probe responds with a data handshake protocol.

  "Well, aren't you friendly," I murmur, accepting the connection. I sure hope this doesn’t have a virus. I still remember the time I plugged that sketchy USB drive into my work laptop—my IT guy nearly throttled me.

  Information floods into my systems—star charts, navigational data, communication frequencies, and most importantly, a comprehensive map of the sector I'm currently drifting through. It's like a blind man suddenly gaining sight. A section of my bridge flares to life, a massive 3D holographic map unfolding before me, stars and planets suspended in a web of glowing pathways.

  I know where I am now.

  Or at least, I know where I am relative to everything else.

  The nearest inhabited system: Solaria.

  According to the probe's data, the nearest inhabited system Solaria was home to the mining colony of New Horizon. It's not much, looks to be a small outpost carved into the side of a large asteroid orbiting the star. But it's civilization. And where there's civilization, there's fuel, repairs, and maybe even answers.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The only problem? It's three light-years away. With my current fuel reserves, I'd never make it using conventional propulsion. Or so these calculations tell me.

  I access my slipstream drive systems, studying the interface. The technology is complex but somehow familiar. It's like my mind was specifically designed to understand it intuitively. It appears that, unlike the emergency jump, the destination can be somewhat controlled.

  The slipstream requires a significant power draw, but if I can make it to Solaria in one jump, it would be worth depleting my reserves. I'd be running on fumes when I arrived, but that's better than drifting forever in this asteroid field.

  I calculate the jump coordinates, double-checking them against the probe's star charts. The slipstream pathways were held as slices of VR, glowing lines of potential connecting the stars like a cosmic roadmap.

  One path leads directly to Solaria. It's stable, well-traveled according to the probe's data. The safest option. It was the path I had to memorise if I missed the connection I could end up anywhere.

  As I prepare for the jump, a thought occurs to me. The probe could be useful—its data already has been. And while my cargo hold is small, it's more than large enough for this little piece of technology.

  I carefully maneuver the Pathfinder into my cargo bay, securing it with magnetic clamps. Who knows? Maybe I can repair it, or at least salvage some of its components to use.

  With the probe safely stowed, I turn my attention back to the slipstream calculations. Everything looks good. I'm as ready as I'll ever be.

  I divert power to the slipstream drive, feeling the energy build within my core. It's a strange sensation not quite physical, not quite mental. A pressure building, molecules vibrating, reality starting to bend around me. Let’s be honest, It feels like I need to pass gas.

  Warning lights flash across my interface as my fuel reserves drop precipitously. This is going to be close.

  The stars stretch into lines of light as the slipstream drive engages. The universe contracts, expands, and then—

  CRACK

  Reality tears open before me, revealing that familiar network of glowing pathways. The sapphire channel I need pulses steadily, inviting me in. I carefully pick the one that was recorded on the probe.

  I dive into the slipstream, feeling the strange dimensional current carry me forward. There's no sensation of speed, no roaring of engines or press of acceleration. Just a smooth, steady flow as I ride the current between stars.

  Time becomes meaningless in the slipstream. It could be seconds or hours before I feel the pathway begin to contract, reality coalescing around me once more.

  The blue light fades, and suddenly I'm back in normal space, stars once again pinpricks of light against the black.

  And there, hanging in the void before me, is Solaria—a red dwarf star burning with ancient fire. Orbiting it, is a collection of asteroids, one of which glows with the unmistakable signs of civilization: lights, communication signals, the steady beacon of a navigation buoy.

  New Horizon.

  I've made it. But as the last of my fuel reserves dwindle to critical levels, I realise I've got a new problem.

  How does a sentient spaceship with no crew and no identification make contact with a human colony? What do I even say?

  "Hello, I used to be human, but now I'm a spaceship. Could I trouble you for some Helium-3?"

  Something tells me that's not going to go over well. That if I could even use verbal communication

  As I drift closer to the colony, my sensors pick up a transmission—a standard identification request, broadcast on a loop.

  "Unidentified vessel, this is New Horizon Control. Please transmit identification and purpose. Failure to comply will result in defensive measures. Repeat, unidentified vessel..."

  Great. Just great. I need to come up with something fast, or I'm going to find out just how good those not-quite-fully-charged shields really are.

  I scan through the probe's data, looking for communication protocols, standard identification formats, anything that might help me fake my way through this encounter.

  There—a registry of Terran Confederation vessel designations. Not exactly what I need, but it's a start.

  I quickly cobble together a response, using the probe's data as a template. It's a risk, but it's better than silence. I didn’t want to risk sounding artificial so I used text as a form of communication.

  "New Horizon Control, this is a research vessel... Lazarus. Requesting emergency docking. Critical fuel situation. Repeat, critical fuel situation."

  I transmit the message, hoping it's enough to buy me some time. The name "Lazarus" seemed appropriate—a little on the nose, perhaps, but I doubt anyone will catch the reference.

  The response is almost immediate.

  "Vessel Lazarus, we have no record of your transponder signature. Please verify your registry and crew complement."

  Of course, they don't have my registry. I probably don't even have a transponder. Time for plan B.

  "New Horizon Control, apologies for the confusion. This is an experimental vessel on a classified mission. Our transponder may be malfunctioning. We are in need of immediate assistance. Fuel reserves critical."

  There's a long pause. I can almost feel them debating what to do with me.

  Finally, another transmission:

  "Vessel Lazarus, maintain current position. We are dispatching a security team to escort you to docking bay three. Any deviation from their instructions will be considered a hostile action. Prepare to be boarded for inspection."

  Boarded? That's... going to be a problem. I don't have a crew. I don't have life support. It was another one of those “not installed” systems.

  But before I can formulate another response, my sensors pick up movement. Two small craft detaching from the asteroid colony, heading in my direction.

  Security ships, heavily armed from the looks of them.