Pfes-005

It was the sound of a child laughing, and a small, mechanical hum keeping time.

PFES-005’s optical sensor widened. Its programming had no subroutine for wonder. Yet wonder is what it felt.

It was a standard-issue retrieval drone, serial PFES-005, no more than a scuffed metal sphere the size of a clenched fist. Its mission was simple: drift through the wreckage of the Odysseus mining vessel, locate the emergency black box, and return to the salvage bay. It had done this a thousand times on a thousand other dead ships. PFES-005

The drone calculated its options. Return to the salvage bay with the black box, mission complete. Or stay. Listen. Help.

The trail led to a sealed medical bay, door pried open from the inside. Inside, the air was stale but breathable—unusual for a wreck two years cold. A single cot was bolted to the floor, and on it lay a data-slate, still powered. PFES-005 hovered closer. The slate's screen flickered to life, displaying a single file: Log 47 – Dr. Aris Thorne. It was the sound of a child laughing,

A voice—not from the slate, but from the air itself—whispered: “Help us finish.”

The drone played it.

PFES-005’s micro-thrusters fired in soft, precise bursts as it navigated a corridor choked with frozen coolant and torn insulation. Its internal chronometer ticked past the three-hour mark. No black-box signal yet. Instead, its spectrographic sensor caught something odd—a faint, repeating pattern of organic residue on the bulkhead. Not blood. Something older. Duller. Like powdered bone mixed with rust.