I stagger, my breath shallow. A dull pain pulses in my right side. Warm blood trickles slowly down my ribs beneath my torn uniform. A broken rib, perhaps. Or worse. I force myself to remain upright despite the exhaustion and shock threatening to overwhelm me. I am the Admiral. I cannot falter. I was trained, almost engineered, to command a ship like this. Admittedly, not to handle a crash—let alone one with no survivors—but even so. My condition is secondary for now. If I can walk, it means there’s nothing immediately fatal.

  “Leia... are there any drones or droids that survived? Any intact sections of the ship?”

  An interminable silence. Then her voice, calmer than it should be, finally responds:

  “Analysis in progress...”

  I remain motionless, gazing at the massive debris stretching endlessly around me. Pieces of the Colossus, stripped of its former majesty, lie shattered and scattered like the bones of a fallen giant. The wind whistles through the cracks and crevices of metal plates. I find a sheltered spot to sit, desperately needing a moment of rest.

  “Result: 17.3% of droids have survived. Functionality varies. Active autonomous modules detected within a two-kilometer radius. Some are converging on your position.”

  A wave of relief mixed with apprehension washes over me. The droids... built to ensure the safety and operation of the colony. Their sophistication is unparalleled. But here, in this alien environment, what of their programming? They rely on a central system to function collectively. If the servers are down, they must have defaulted to the same ones Leia is using.

  “Leia, what do you mean by ‘variable functionality’?”

  “Units are damaged or altered by gravitational and electromagnetic disruptions caused by the crash and preceding events. Some functionalities may be unstable.”

  Exactly what I feared. The droids are incredibly resilient, but even they aren’t immune to malfunctions in such extreme conditions. I’m already grateful to hear that approximately 17% of the units survived; that must amount to a few hundred.

  “And the ship? The generator?”

  “The Colossus’s central generator is intact. It is located 3.8 kilometers northeast of your position. Terrain and debris dispersion complicate access. Other partially intact sections include: emergency communications room B-2 and the preparation area of the mess hall.”

  The generator is intact. It’s a glimmer of hope amidst the desolation, overshadowing the other findings. With it, I could reactivate some systems—perhaps even establish a semblance of a base. It’s no surprise it survived; the reactor is a masterpiece of technology more valuable than the ship itself. Encased in an enormous shielded compartment spanning dozens of meters, it’s built to withstand unimaginable forces. These three kilometers feel like an eternity in my current state. How will I move this...

  A mechanical sound interrupts my thoughts. I turn abruptly, one hand instinctively reaching for my hip—where nothing resides, not even a rudimentary weapon. I have nothing but my decorative belt.

  A droid.

  It advances toward me, emerging from the shadows of a mound of debris. A standard maintenance unit, standing about two meters tall. Its chassis is marred with burns and cracks, yet it appears operational. Its central eye emits a flickering blue light, and its articulated arms end in human-like hands. It’s a humanoid model.

  “Autonomous units activated. Admiral detected. Priority assistance engaged.”

  Its voice is monotone, but what it represents fills me with a renewed sense of purpose. I am not entirely alone.

  Behind it, two more forms slowly emerge. A heavy transport unit capable of lifting massive debris and a humanoid combat droid, its armor still bearing the military insignias of the Colossus. The latter is armed, and though its movements are fluid, part of its plating appears melted from the intense pressures it endured.

  I lean against a chunk of metal to catch my breath, scrutinizing my mechanical allies. They’re here, but they’re just three units out of thousands. For now, they’ll have to suffice.

  “Leia, activate coordination of the remaining droids. Priority: gather information about the terrain. I need locations of operational droids, recoverable resources, and any immediate threats.”

  “Order transmitted. Synchronization in progress.”

  I can’t afford to wait for a full report; I trust Leia to handle the details. My mind races, trying to devise an immediate course of action.

  “Leia, secondary priority: maps and a secure route to the generator. We must secure it; doing so will give us a fighting chance to regain some semblance of control.”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “Trajectory calculated. Warning: high concentration of debris in the area. Hostile conditions likely.”

  I am exhausted, but one thought dominates my mind more than my own condition. Losing the reactor means losing any chance of rebuilding here. It’s a near-autonomous fusion engine, a source of virtually unlimited energy crafted over centuries of research and at the cost of billions of credits. Without it, Leia’s servers will go offline forever, the droids will cease to function, and I’ll be alone.

  Utterly alone.

  The initial shock has passed, replaced by a cold determination. Pain, exhaustion, loneliness—all of it matters little in the face of what must be done. If I want to survive, if I want to make sense of this disaster, I have to act now. My first goal is clear: gather the droids. With them, I can hope to secure the vital parts of the Colossus and lay the groundwork for survival.

  I turn to the three droids already present, their glowing sensors fixed on me.

  “Leia, I want every operational unit to converge on my position. Identify those that can be quickly repaired with available parts in the area. Absolute priority: transport, maintenance, and combat droids.”

  It seems unlikely that Leia’s earlier analysis missed any drone-class units—a shame, as they’d have been invaluable for scouting the crash site and the surrounding area. Judging by the scorched trees at the forest’s edge, it’s clear I’ve landed in a wooded area. It could’ve been worse: a city, or the middle of an ocean. Then I remember that number—zero. No one survived but me. I grit my teeth. No, it couldn’t have been worse.

  “Order transmitted. Scanning local networks. Estimated convergence time: approximately one hour. Estimated repair time for partially functional units: variable depending on recoverable resources.”

  An hour. An eternity in this unfamiliar environment. Fragments of my training at the Imperial Naval Academy surface: in a hostile environment, staying on the move is paramount. Avoid stagnant positions. But I have no choice. I can only hope this environment is no more hostile than the field of debris already is.

  I have to move towerd the generator.

  I motion sharply to the heavy transport droid. This guy will clear my path to it.

  “You’re coming with me to secure the generator. It’s critical. Leia, guide me.”

  “Secure route calculated. Unstable debris detected in the area. Estimated travel time: 35 minutes.”

  I take a deep breath, the motion painful in my right side, and start moving. Three kilometers is going to be painful. My legs protest, each step rekindling a sharp pain in my injured side, but I can’t afford to stop. Ahead of me, the transport droid clears debris too cumbersome for me to navigate, its heavy steps crushing grass and fragments beneath its weight. On either side, the other two droids flank me. Though only one is armed, their presence offers some reassurance.

  After an arduous march, we finally arrive. I nearly collapse, breathless. Fuck, do I really have some broken ribs ?! The generator compartment looms ahead, massive and solitary, emerging from the wreckage like a fortress. Its armored shell, mostly intact, speaks to its superior design. But visible cracks mar its surface, and torn pipes leak a whitish gas. Along the way, about forty droids have joined us, scattered survivors converging slowly but steadily. It feels like walking with an army, except there’s no one left to defend.

  The generator itself is a behemoth—a massive cylindrical structure about forty meters tall, bristling with pipes, control panels, and security systems. It sits in a crater, partially embedded in the plain, its immense weight having driven it deep into the ground upon impact. The crater it created is vast, it obliterated everything in its immediate vicinity.

  Leia’s voice finally speaks again, through the module I replaced on my wrist.

  “Fusion generator detected. Structural integrity: 83%, primarily external damage. Functionality unstable. Main power is offline. Gravitational disturbances and the impact have compromised anchoring systems. Stabilization required to prevent irreversible damage.”

  It’s even worse than I expected. If this generator fails or sustains further damage, I’m doomed. The droids, Leia, any chance of survival—all depend on it. Now that it’s in front of me, it’s time to act. Maybe that's my mission now. I try to convince myself, flooding my mind with this one objective to suppress any lingering human thoughts.

  “Leia, deploy all available transport and maintenance units here immediately. Combat droids are to secure the area during repairs.”

  “Order executing. Estimated arrival time for first units: 15 minutes.”

  I kneel beside a partially dislodged control console, attempting to restart it. The screen flickers weakly, but the commands remain inaccessible. No surprise. The reactor itself has survived and is likely in a safety mode, but all auxiliary systems are fried.

  As the droids finally arrive, the plain begins to stir with activity. A dozen machines, some dented but operational, converge on the generator, joining the ones already at work. Articulated arms immediately spring into action, removing metal plates, welding cracks, and reconnecting severed cables. More of them emerge like an unyielding swarm of ants, appearing from the wreckage as if rising from a vast underground hive.

  A humanoid maintenance droid approaches me, a first-aid kit integrated into its frame. I'm asked to take off my shirt as it detects injury. It quickly scans my whole body before applying antiseptic foam and a compressive bandage. The pain dulls slightly. I ask it what exactly afflicts me, but its vocals seem fucked up, I guess I’ll have to make do for now.

  Meanwhile, transport droids clear debris from around the generator, primarily heaps of scorched earth and charred wreckage. They stabilize the structure using recovered materials supplied by the others. A combat unit patrols the perimeter, its sensors sweeping the area for potential threats. For now, the only threat appears to be my own stress—and that’s a relief.

  All these robots together form a chaotic but efficient ballet.

  My brain also continues this dance in abstraction from the spectacle before my eyes.

  “Leia, how many main servers are still intact?”

  “One main server detected. Location: 2 kilometers west of the generator. High risk of imminent degradation. If this server is compromised, my integrity will be irreparably lost.”

  It’s another blow, but there’s an opportunity. With the generator stabilized, I could power the server and ensure its protection.

  “Leia, prioritize backing up your data. Once the generator is reactivated, your integrity is the top priority.”

  “Order confirmed. Estimated time for data transfer and stabilization: 3 hours post-generator reactivation.”

  I clench my fists. Everything hinges on this generator. Every weld, every repair made by these droids is a battle won against oblivion and desolation.