What if I'm wrong? What if this kills them faster?
The thought had been circling his brain like a vulture since he'd found the powder. He wasn't a doctor. He wasn't a scientist. He was a twenty-year-old captain, and his crew trusted him to make the right choices. Emily trusted him. Zoe trusted him. They all did. And now their lives hung on whether he could figure out an alien machine and synthesize the right cure.
Six people. Six lives. And you're about to gamble with all of them.
He'd led them to Midnight Veil. He'd made the call to explore without proper quarantine protocols. Now his friends were paying the price.
Move. They don't have time for you to stand here feeling sorry for yourself.
Luca slapped the power toggle on the Analyzer.
The machine hummed to life, displays flickering as the system booted up. Text scrolled across the main screen, and Luca's jaw dropped.
"Are... you kidding me?"
Perfect English. Clean, readable interface. User-friendly icons and clearly labeled functions. The System had normalized everything, like it did with weapons and equipment. What should have been incomprehensible alien technology looked like something Danny could have designed.
Okay. I can work with this.
He activated [Predictive Modeling], feeling the ability settle into his consciousness, its logic intuitive. The machine's interface layout became clear: input protocols, analysis parameters, output formatting. It was designed for efficiency, built to take biological samples and break them down into their molecular components.
Simple workflow. Sample goes in, data comes out. Even an idiot can handle this.
Please don't let me be wrong about that.
A small aperture slid open on the analyzer's surface, revealing a flat glass plate. It extended exactly like a phone's SIM tray, waiting for input.
Luca uncapped the vial with shaking hands. The purple powder caught the light, each grain looking impossibly small and fragile. How much was enough?
Danny would know exactly how much to use. Emily would have calculated the optimal ratio. But they're both unconscious and he was working with best guesses.
He tipped the vial, letting a few grains sprinkle onto the analysis plate. His hand trembled so badly he nearly spilled the entire contents.
Please be enough. Please be right.
The plate retracted smoothly into the machine. A low hum began, and the machine went to work. The process was agonizingly slow. Seconds stretched into an eternity. The displays lit up with scrolling data, molecular diagrams spinning and resolving, but it was all incomprehensible technobabble to him. All he could do was stand there, watching the progress bar crawl across the screen at a glacial pace.
10%... 20%...
Is it working? Did I put enough in? Did I put too much in?
40%...
He kept checking his own watch. Every second the machine spent analyzing was a second his friends didn't have. He felt a frantic urge to bang on the housing, to scream at it to go faster. Pixel seemed to sense his distress, rubbing against his leg with a soft, rumbling purr. Luca reached down and absently stroked her fur, the simple, living texture a strange comfort against the cold, inert machinery.
80%... 95%...
It chimed.
The main screen cleared, displaying results in cold, clinical language that made Luca's stomach clench:
[Molecular Analysis Complete]
Compound Class: Anti-invasive cytobiotic
Behavioral Profile: Seeks out parasitic filament growth; neutralizes toxin-mediated cellular hijack
Secondary Effect: Accelerates vascular regrowth + mitochondrial efficiency
Tertiary Effect: Rapid organ system stabilization under systemic assault
Synthesis Recommendation: High-yield production viable. Compound stable under standard atmospheric conditions.
The precise, dry language made Luca's stomach clench. "Parasitic filament growth." "Cellular hijack." It was the language of a horror movie, not a medical report. But the secondary and tertiary effects... those gave him hope. Accelerated healing. Organ stabilization. The kind of rapid recovery that could bring his crew back from the edge. That had brought him from the edge.
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This is it. This has to be it.
His interface exploded with notifications.
[System Company Achievement]
First TL9 Molecular Discovery from Level 60+ Portal Flora
Award: +40,000,000 credits
Triumph Initiative Company Recognition Upgrade Unlocked
The achievement was almost an insult, bright colors and celebration, while his crew lay dying. Forty million credits felt meaningless when Emily couldn't stand up and Ryan was drowning in his own blood.
[Reward Package]
[Item Acquired: Programmable Molecular Cartridge Schematic (TL9)]
[Item Acquired: Medical Nanites Schematic (TL9)]
[Item Acquired: SpectraForge Bio-Catalyst Matrix Schematic (TL9)]
Luca dismissed the notifications with an angry swipe. He didn't care about credits or achievements. He needed medicine.
The SynthCrafter beside him hummed to life, its interface detecting the completed analysis. The screen lit up with options:
DELIVERY METHOD SELECTION:
CARTRIDGE / CREAM / PILLS
Cartridges made the most sense, fastest absorption, and easiest to administer through the medical pods to unconscious patients. He tapped the option.
A port slid open in the side of the machine, ready for a cartridge. A message appeared: INSERT PROGRAMMABLE MOLECULAR CARTRIDGE.
Shit.
Luca sprinted to the cargo containers, frantically searching for the PMC case Joey had found in Midnight Veil. His hands shook as he rifled through equipment, time slipping away while his crew's lives hung in the balance.
There. A sealed case labeled "Programmable Molecular Cartridges."
He grabbed a bunch of those cylinders and ran back. Taking one of the small, silver cylinders, he jammed it into the SynthCrafter's port. The machine accepted it with a satisfied click.
"Come on, come on, come on..." he whispered, slamming his palm against the large green activation button. "Work."
The SynthCrafter came alive.
Beneath its white metallic cover, motors whirred. Pressure vessels hissed. Complex chemical processes began inside the machine's housing, humming and hawing as it did its thing. The status display showed synthesis progress: 15%... 30%... 50%...
Finally, with a loud chime, the top of the SynthCrafter slid open.
Luca stared.
The top of the machine retracted, revealing a retrieval tray containing a neat row of sixteen small canisters. Each one was labeled "Anti-Invasive Cytobiotic Cartridge - Dosage: Standard Adult - Expiration: 72 Hours."
[Item acquired: Anti-Invasive Cytobiotic Cartridge]
Sixteen. Holy shit. Sixteen.
From a single PMC.
Luca's knees nearly buckled. He'd expected maybe one or two, enough to treat a couple of crew members if he was lucky. Instead, the machine had produced enough medicine to treat his entire crew multiple times over, with doses to spare.
Emily. Ryan. Zoe. Joey. Chris. Danny.
He wouldn't be able to administer the medicine directly. He'd have to use the medical pods for proper infusion, and that meant...
One at a time. Thirty-minute cycles. Metabolic load requires pod stabilization.
The technical requirements scrolled across his mind as he processed the implications. Six people needed treatment, but he could only treat one every thirty minutes. Three hours minimum to get everyone dosed, assuming nothing went wrong.
Who goes first? Who dies while waiting?
The relief lasted only a second before a cold knot of dread formed in his gut. He had the cure, but administering it would be a nightmare of logistics and life-or-death decisions.
Okay. Okay, think. Who first?
Chris and Danny. They were already in the medical pods. He could administer their doses without moving them, saving precious minutes. That was the easy part. But then what?
Pull Chris out, put Emily in. His brain supplied the answer instantly. She was the most lucid before she collapsed. If he could get her stable, she could help him. With her medical knowledge and her calm head, she could double his efficiency. It was calculated and strategic—choosing her because she could help, not because he loved her.
Then Zoe. The image of those green-black tendrils spreading across her face burned in his mind. Her symptoms were the most aggressive, the most alien. She was deteriorating the fastest. She had to be next.
That left Ryan and Joey. Ryan was coughing up blood, a catastrophic internal symptom. Joey had collapsed from fever and exhaustion. Who was in more immediate danger? Ryan. The blood meant active, uncontrolled damage. Joey was stable, for now.
So that was the order. The death list. Chris, Danny, Emily, Zoe, Ryan, Joey. A neat, orderly queue to survival, and God help anyone if the person ahead of them took too long.
You're ranking your friends by who gets to live first. Measuring their lives in thirty-minute increments.
His hands shook as he reached for the cartridges. They were warm to the touch, freshly synthesized and ready for use. Each one contained hope. Each one could save a life. But the clock was ticking, and he had impossible choices to make.
He grabbed ten of the cartridges, stuffing them into his pockets and clutching the rest to his chest. Behind him, Pixel chirped and sprang into motion, a blur of midnight blue as she raced across the hangar deck.
But as Luca started to follow, the weight of the cartridges in his hands made him pause. He looked down at his blood-stained fingers, grime from the crawlspace still caked under his nails, scratches covering his forearms. The cartridges felt impossibly fragile in his shaking grip.
I can't drop any of these. Not a single one.
He glanced around the hangar and spotted an equipment cart locked against the far wall. Ryan's doing. He was adamant that people not steal his carts.
Luca sprinted over, fumbling with the code Ryan had programmed. His bloody fingers slipped on the keypad twice before the lock disengaged with a click.
He grabbed the cart and wheeled it back to the SynthCrafter, carefully placing the entire output tray into the cart's padded compartment. Sixteen cartridges, nestled in their custom slots, each one a lifeline.
Pixel appeared beside the cart and, without hesitation, hopped onto the lower shelf like she'd been planning to ride shotgun all along. Her purple markings pulsed steadily, and she settled into a comfortable crouch, ready to go.
Luca gripped the cart's handle, ready to sprint for the infirmary. But something made him pause for three seconds. He turned back to look at the hangar.
The SpectraForge Analyzer hummed quietly, its displays still showing molecular diagrams. The SynthCrafter sat beside it, steam still rising from its cooling vents. Impossible, alien TL9 hardware that had performed miracles. Technology that had turned a handful of purple dust into sixteen doses of life-saving medicine.
"This is what we're supposed to be doing," he whispered. "This is why we're here."
Not just to survey asteroids or catalog planets or run missions for corporate sponsors or punch their ticket to bigger ships. They were supposed to be pushing the boundaries, finding the impossible, bringing back the kind of discoveries that could change everything.
The crawlspace. The fear. The desperate race against time. All of it had led to this moment, standing in a hangar bay with alien technology that could save lives.
Pixel chirped once, as if agreeing with his revelation.
Luca turned the cart toward the exit and ran.
He burst into the infirmary and did a quick headcount.
Five people in the pods or beds.
The sixth, Zoe, whose symptoms had been the most aggressive, was gone.
Pixel hissed.