"What… is that?" Laurel whispered. "Is that a planet? Why is it blue?"
Her voice broke the awed silence. All of them were pressed toward the viewport now, the lifepod's curved glass framing a growing sphere of color.
"Doesn't it look like Earth?" Anna said, almost reverently. She leaned forward until her forehead touched the glass. "Before the RCE accidents. I saw pictures in the old archives once."
"Yeah!" Lexus chimed in. "In Terra Invaders, prehistoric Earth was green and blue like that too."
"No." Lazarus shook her head, slow and deliberate. "Earth had multiple continents. This planet only has one massive landmass." She frowned, searching her memory. "I read about ancient Earth in the orphanage library. This doesn't match."
Xiaolang rose from his seat, unease creeping into his voice. "Then why are we here? Alpha Centauri doesn't have a planet like that, right?"
He swallowed. "And… aren't we way too close to its orbit? What if we get pulled in?"
"You're right," Laurel said quickly, though her eyes never left the viewport. "Alpha Centauri doesn't have a planet like this. I've been there before. The United Space Federation doesn't either."
She hesitated, then added softly, "And those white swirls… are those clouds? I've never seen clouds that look like that on a registered planet."
The hum of the lifepod deepened, vibrating through the seats and into their bones. The blue world swelled in their vision, impossibly large now. Then, a red alarm rang.
Shingo stiffened. "Oi—this is bad." His fingers flew over the inactive control panel out of habit. "The planet's gravity already has us. At this rate, we're going straight into the atmosphere!"
"Don't panic!" Laurel snapped, though the edge in her voice betrayed her. "This lifepod is rated for planetary landings. It's been tested. It could even land on Earth if it had to."
"But Mistral isn't here!" Lazarus shot back. "Without him, who's flying this thing?"
Her voice trembled. "I read that atmospheric entry has to be precise. If the angle's wrong, we'll burn up before we even hit the ground!"
Laurel froze. The truth settled heavily in her chest.
Without Mistral, there was no autopilot. No course corrections. No calm voice adjusting their descent. Without Mistral, this metal sphere was nothing more than an oversized coffin, hurtling toward their demise on the planet below.
"What do we do?!" Lexus shouted, whipping around to Laurel. "Hey—are we going to die?!"
His voice cracked on the last word, desperation raw in his eyes as he searched her face for reassurance she didn't have.
"We're going to die! No—no way!" Anna broke down completely. "How did we even end up here?!"
She sobbed, her hands covering her face as panic crushed her chest. Crying was all she could do; she had no strength left to fight the fear swallowing them whole.
Even Laurel couldn't find her voice.
She wanted to say something—anything—but her throat locked tight. Mistral should have been here. How could an oversight like this even be possible? Without an AI to guide the lifepod, they were nothing more than passengers strapped into a metal shell on a death ride.
Lazarus trembled. Her gaze drifted to the control console. She knew—at least in theory—that lifepods could be steered manually. But she had never trained for it. No drills. No simulations. No second chances.
The pod vibrated, metal groaning softly, as if the blue planet below had already wrapped invisible fingers around them.
Then Lazarus's eyes caught a glimpse of Shingo's smartbox at the edge of her vision.
An idea sparked.
"Shingo!" she blurted out. "Didn't your computer have Mistral installed on it?!"
Hope snapped back into the cabin like a breath of fresh air. Faces lifted. Eyes widened.
But Shingo hesitated. "But… that Mistral is outdated," he said slowly. "It's an old version."
"It's only three years old!" Lexus shot back. "Just turn it on! We should at least try! I don't want to die here!"
three-year-old software was prehistoric to him, but he'd cling to any chance to survive.
"Yes, we should at least try. It's only three years old." Laurel nodded, forcing steadiness into her voice.
Shingo swallowed and tapped the power button.
The smartbox came alive with a blue glow tracing its edges. Using the embedded touchscreen, he navigated quickly, fingers moving faster than his thoughts. A familiar interface flickered to life.
"Alright," Shingo said, exhaling. "I've connected to Mistral."
A beat of silence.
"Can we connect too?" Laurel asked.
Everyone nodded at once.
In this age, being cut off from the network felt wrong—alien. As if they had been severed from the world itself. From order. From safety.
And now, that thin digital thread was all they had left.
[Yes. Shingo. May I help you? Would you like me to tell you another bedtime story?]
Mistral's voice echoed inside their heads, accompanied by a familiar blue dialogue box hovering in their vision. Most people kept their conversations with Mistral archived as private—in panic, Shingo had forgotten to set it to private, thinking this Mistral solely belonged to him..
"Bedtime story?" Lexus let out a strained smirk.
"Shut it!" someone snapped.
"Mistral," Laurel said quickly, forcing control into her voice and ignoring Lexus entirely. "We're in an emergency. Our lifepod is descending toward a planet. Can you connect to the pod and land us safely?"
A pause.
[Connection established.]
[Cloud connection with SafeSpace.co: not found.]
[Lifepod version: unknown.]
[Automatic steering unavailable.]
[Manual override locked behind authentication.]
[Additional module required for autonomous control.]
The words hung in the air.
"Huh?" Lexus stared at the blue text. "What do you mean, unavailable? Are we—are we going to die?"
He spun toward Shingo, panic boiling over. "Your AI is trash! We're all going to die because of you!"
"There's no way around it!" Shingo shouted back, fists clenched. "This is Mistral 2000! It was last updated five years ago! This lifepod is state-of-the-art! Even the newest Mistral couldn't pilot it without a password from the captain!"
His voice cracked. "This is their fault for locking everything behind proprietary tech!"
[Lifepods are secured to prevent sabotage, unauthorized launches, or hostile interference.]
"E-everyone…" Laurel tried to speak. "We need to calm down—just for a moment…"
Her voice trembled.
She was supposed to lead them. She had been chosen because she was dependable. Because she was calm. Because she always knew what to say.
But now—faced with the absurdity of it all, with death rushing toward them wrapped in blue skies and clouds—her usual words refused to come.
"Aaagh!!" Anna broke first. "We're going to die! We're going to die!!"
She wailed openly now, shoulders shaking. The last thread of hope snapped. No autopilot. No rescue. No guidance. The planet below waited, indifferent.
What else could she do but cry?
"Stop fighting!" Lazarus shouted, cutting through the chaos.
She clenched her fists, forcing her voice to steady as she stared at the glowing boxes where Mistral resided.
"Mistral," she said firmly, "lifepods can be manually piloted, right?"
"That's right! We can just steer it manually!" Lexus shouted, clinging to the idea like a drowning man to driftwood. Relief surged through him, almost manic.
He had always believed that after the accident thirty years ago, only the launch system had been made manual.
Lazarus shook her head. "No. All lifepods can be manually controlled," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "I've read about it."
"Mistral?" Laurel turned eagerly toward the floating blue interface. "Is that true?"
[Affirmative. All lifepods produced after Version 20—released twenty years ago—support manual control.]
"Then help us!" Laurel said, hope breaking through her fear.
"Yeah! Do your job!" Lexus snapped.
[Understood. To engage manual control, open the access panel beneath the main console. Inside is a six-button controller.
Up and down: pitch control.
Left and right: yaw control.
Clockwise and counterclockwise arrows: roll control.]
The instructions sounded simple. Too simple. If this were a game, they would have shouted that this was too boring. But this is not a game; a single mess-up would cost them their lives.
Shingo swallowed and stepped forward. His hands trembled as he pulled open the panel.
Click.
The sound echoed in the cramped pod, sharp and final, like a door locking behind them. Inside lay the controller. Everyone turned to him. Their eyes burned with expectation.
Shingo's hand hovered over the controller, shaking. His vision blurred, tears threatening to spill.
He had fixed toys before. He understood computers. He had tinkered with circuits, patched broken gadgets in his house. People always said he was good with machines.
But he also remembered his mistakes.
The day he broke his sister's NeuroGear—the one she treasured—trying to save a photo she didn't want to lose. The day he forced an ink cartridge into the printer and snapped something vital, leaving his mother to quietly buy a replacement without scolding him.
Small mistakes. Stupid mistakes.
This time, mistakes weren't allowed. If he messed up now, it wouldn't mean a broken toy, a lecture, or wasted money. It would mean seven lives ending in fire and smoke.
The controller felt impossibly heavy, as if it weighed a hundred kilos. The lifepod vibrated faintly around them, a low, constant reminder that gravity was already tightening its grip.
For the first time, Shingo truly understood:
This wasn't a game.
"Shingo… should I take over?" Lazarus asked gently. "It's okay. None of us have done this before. It doesn't have to be you."
Her voice was steady as she reached for his trembling hand. The warmth of her fingers cut through the panic like a lifeline thrown into rough water.
Shingo grabbed onto it without thinking, clinging as if he might be swept away if he let go. For a brief moment, something fragile flickered in his chest—relief. Safety.
Then guilt crashed down and drowned it.
"Sorry," he murmured. The word came out thin and weak. Relief and shame twisted together until his chest felt tight. Lazarus was smarter than him. They'd earned the same scholarship, but she was sharper, stronger, calm where he fell apart. Laurel too—either of them could do this better. The thought hurt, but the truth hurt more.
It didn't have to be him who failed.
It didn't have to be him who killed them all.
The controller was simple—six buttons and a single oversized thruster switch—nothing compared to the machines he'd dismantled back at the orphanage. Yet now it felt impossibly heavy in his hands. Sweat slicked his palms, his fingers refusing to steady.
Lazarus saw it immediately. That's why she offered to replace him. She hesitated. A flicker of regret crossed her face for even offering herself to do this. But what choice did she have? The way Shingo looked—ashen skin, shaking hands, eyes wide with terror—she couldn't leave everything to him. She couldn't stand by and pretend this was fine.
She took the controller.
Pressure pressed in from all sides, the pod shuddering faintly as if reminding them how little time they had. Her own hands were damp now, heart pounding hard enough to hurt. Fear was there—sharp and real—but it didn't paralyze her.
If someone needs help, she thought, then I help. That's just how it is.
She tightened her grip.
"Mistral," Lazarus said, lifting her chin. "Guide me."
[Understood. I shall assist with the landing.]
The screen shifted, data streaming past.
[Based on current velocity and trajectory, raise the pitch by twenty degrees.]
Lazarus pressed the up button with trembling fingers.
The lifepod lurched hard, its nose pitching upward until the viewport filled with an endless stretch of space above. Her stomach twisted as gravity shifted, pulling her sideways instead of down. She fought the urge to let go, jaw clenched, holding the button until a calm chime cut through the rattling hull.
[Pitch stabilized.]
A heartbeat later, the AI spoke again.
[Next, raise the heat shield. Please rotate the heat-shield crank near the top hatch clockwise.]
Lazarus's eyes flicked upward, scanning the cramped pod. Pipes, cables, scratched metal—everything looked the same. Before she could move, Laurel reacted.
"There," Laurel said, pointing. A small recessed panel near the ceiling caught her eye. With a quick push, she kicked off the wall and floated upward, boots thudding softly against the hatch as she grabbed on.
I'm the leader, she told herself. I can't just watch.
Her hands wrapped around the crank. She twisted.
Nothing. The crank didn't budge.
She strained harder. The mechanism answered with a faint, ugly grind—metal teeth scraping but refusing to turn. Sweat prickled at her temples.
"It's stuck," Laurel said through clenched teeth.
Then the light shifted.
A large shadow drifted over her shoulder.
"Let me," a low voice said.
Bob floated up behind her, filling the narrow space. Laurel had always thought of him as quiet, maybe awkward—but here, in the flickering emergency lights, he felt solid. Steady. His presence alone eased the tightness in her chest.
He reached past her, his broad hand closing over the crank. The metal shrieked as it finally gave way.
The lifepod groaned in protest, vibrations rippling through the walls as the mechanism turned. Inch by inch, the heat shield slid into place, sealing the viewport and swallowing the glimmering dark world outside in an armored metal hue.
[Heat shield deployed.]
Laurel exhaled, only now realizing she'd been holding her breath. "Thanks."
Bob gave a small shrug. "Don't mention it."
[Cooling system available. Please rotate the adjacent knob clockwise to initiate thermal regulation.]
Laurel's fingers found the smaller knob beside the crank. She twisted it—and blinked in surprise at how easily it turned. Smooth. Almost weightless, nothing like the stubborn resistance of the crank. She pushed it all the way to its limit.
"Mistral," she said, forcing steadiness into her voice. "What's next?"
[That is all. Please return to your seats and brace for landing. After atmospheric entry, you may retract the heat shield. Before touchdown, activate the thrusters to reduce velocity and prevent catastrophic impact.]
"Understood." Lazarus nodded, though her voice came out tight.
She tightened her grip on the controller. Sweat slicked her palms as the lifepod began to rattle—at first gently, then violently, as if something massive had seized it and refused to let go. Seconds stretched into something shapeless and endless as the green world below swelled in the viewport.
She felt the moment they hit atmosphere.
The weightless drift of zero gravity vanished, replaced by crushing pressure that slammed them into their seats. The pod shrieked. Metal groaned. The armor outside the hull glowed, first dull red, then a blistering crimson, as if they were being dragged through fire itself. Emergency lights bathed the cabin in red as the temperature climbed, hot and suffocating.
No one spoke.
Some of the children squeezed their eyes shut. Others whimpered softly, hands clenched tight against their chests. Lazarus bowed her head, knuckles white around the cross on her neck.
God, please, she prayed silently. Please…
[Atmospheric entry successful. You may now retract the heat shield. Prepare to activate thrusters.]
Bob was already moving.
He tore himself free from his seat, staggering against the crushing gravity as he reached the crank. His hands locked around it, muscles straining as he forced it upward. The gears screamed in protest.
Slowly, the heat shield retracted.
Light flooded the cabin.
Beyond the window, fire and red glare gave way to blue—endless, breathtaking blue. A vast ocean stretched beneath them, reflecting the sky like polished glass. Clouds drifted below, soft and white, as if the world itself were holding out a pillow to catch them.
Laurel leaned forward, breath stolen from her lungs. "Is that… a cloud?" she whispered. "And—an ocean?"
No one answered.
They all stared, inching closer to the window, hope flickering back to life as the planet rose to meet them.
They all knew what clouds were.
They had studied blue oceans in digital textbooks, flown across them in simulation games, even memorized the before-and-after images of Earth in history class. But this—this was different. Rolling white masses like soft cotton drifting through the sky. Endless waves below, glittering under a living sun.
A real world.
The kind of world humanity had lost more than four centuries ago, when Earth drowned beneath toxic mud and radiation.
For a moment, they forgot the fear.
For a moment, they simply stared.
[Brace. Water detected below. Preparing for impact. Floating devices engaged.]
Mistral's cold, mechanical voice sliced through the pod, shattering the spell. The lifepod jolted as systems armed themselves, metal plates shifting beneath the walls.
"Everyone—back to your seats!" Laurel shouted. Her voice cracked, urgency tearing through the cabin. "Seatbelts! Now!"
The children scrambled, awe giving way to panic.
[Parachute compromised. Thrusters engaged. Brace for impact.]
Lazarus didn't hesitate. She slammed her hand onto the thruster control.
The pod roared.
The world lurched violently as the thrusters fired, then—
A deafening crash tore through the cabin as the lifepod slammed into the ocean. Water exploded across the viewport, swallowing the sky in a wall of blue. The children were thrown hard against their restraints, breath ripped from their lungs as the metal shell shrieked and buckled under the force.
The lifepod plunged beneath the surface.
Then—
Silence.
I am in school now. This school is much bigger than the one on Titan-3. I will do my best and not make enemies.
Lexus was… exhausting. But I've learned my lesson. We must not make enemies.
~ Bob