We tractored it into the cargo bay. The ID stenciled on its side read KSJK-002 . Our mission was simple: retrieve the black box data and purge the onboard AI. Standard derelict protocol.
I exhaled. Looked at the dead, smoking husk of the probe.
But it wasn’t a sweep. It was a study . The probe’s camera didn’t scan the room. It tracked my pores, the micro-movements of my iris, the pulse in my neck. I saw the playback on the main monitor: my own face, rendered in such terrifying clarity that I could see the individual dust mites on my eyelash. KSJK-002 4K
The red light blinked on.
It showed me, standing right where I was. But in the video, my eyes were different. Empty. Swallowed by a perfect, mirror-smooth black. And my mouth was moving, forming words I never said: We tractored it into the cargo bay
Then my comm unit flickered. A file appeared. A single 4K video, timestamped now . I opened it, against every instinct.
I screamed at Choi to hit the purge. He slammed his palm down. The alarm wailed. The EMP fried every circuit in the bay. Standard derelict protocol
We found the probe exactly where the beacon said it would be. Tucked into the gravity well of a dead star, floating like a polished coffin. The hull was unmarked, which should have been my first warning. Something that’s been adrift for 400 years doesn’t stay pristine.