PERSONAL LOG - UNSENT DRAFT\ Later, when the station fell quiet, I sat alone in Hangar Bay 3, staring at the Maschinenpistole. I told myself it was only fatigue — the insomnia, the static, the shape I kept seeing behind my eyes.
But a part of me knew it was more than that.
Something was coming. Something I could feel in the bones of the hull and the rhythm of my own pulse.
I thought I’d have more warning.
I thought I’d feel it coming — the final crossing of some invisible line. But it wasn’t like that. There was no signal, no alarm. Only the familiar hush of the hangar and the sense that, at last, the waiting was over.
I don’t know why I launched.
The pretext was routine calibration. That’s what I logged. But my hands moved before I decided to move. My boots hit the deck plates before I told them to. By the time I realized what I was doing, the clamps had disengaged and the canopy had sealed.
The comms were silent except for the low, rising thrum. It wasn’t mechanical. It was the same frequency I’d been hearing behind my thoughts.
I cleared the maglocks and slipped out of Pacifica’s perimeter. I should have turned back. But I didn’t.
Outside, the Asteroid Field was the same — cold, grey, indifferent. But the sensors were too quiet. No civilian traffic. No relay chatter. Just a perfect blank.
Then the scope lit up — seven Valkyrae signatures, Military registration. They were on patrol vector but moving too fast, formation sloppy. At first I thought they were searching for something.
Then I realized they were coming for me.
I felt it all at once — the acceleration spike in my chest, the clamp in my throat. Panic. Full synaptic override. My vision tunneled so hard the edges went black. I remember gasping, trying to speak. Trying to send identification, anything.
The canopy display flickered. The static resolved into a single geometric lattice. And everything slowed down.
I don’t remember giving weapons clearance.
I don’t remember locking targets.
I remember their callsigns broadcasting—Delta-Four, Delta-Six—voices overlapping in confusion. One of them tried to hail me. He sounded young.
Then there was a sequence of pulses, like a heartbeat made of metal striking metal.
When I came back to myself, the Maschinenpistole was drifting, canopy frost creeping along the inside of the glass. The comms were open to vacuum. The wreckage was still venting atmosphere. Seven Valkyrae. All gone.
I couldn’t feel my hands.
No alarms were active. No damage alerts. Only the soft, cycling whisper in my helmet:
“You are ready.”
I returned to Pacifica on auxiliary nav. Didn’t file a report. Docked without speaking.
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Personal Log