Compatible

A systems engineer takes a six-month assignment aboard a supply ship to Mars. He shares the vessel with the ship's medical officer.

By the time they reach Mars, he'll have to make a choice. About his life. About hers. About reality. 

It’s not just a color out of space; it’s the shape of things to come.

Chapters

• 0:00 Tests
• 5:11 Results
• 8:28 The Ship
• 9:58 The Shift
• 15:10 Something More
• 21:08 The Line
• 22:38 After
• 25:20 French Toast
• 27:52 Apologies
• 29:50 ALARM
• 31:23 Awake
• 32:41 Memories
• 36:14 The System
• 42:34 A Choice

Transcript

 COMPATIBLE

Episode Three

ACT I — THE SCREENING

The screening took eight days.

Not eight days of testing.

Eight days of existing while they watched.

The facility was in Nevada. Low buildings. Desert scrub. The kind of place that exists primarily on government contracts and doesn't waste money on landscaping.

Check-in was at 0800 on a Monday.

They took your phone. Your watch. Anything with a network connection.

You were issued a room key, a meal card, and a lanyard with your candidate ID number.

No names. Just numbers.

Mine was 447-M.

The woman at the desk told me I'd receive my first assignment at 1400.

She didn't say what the assignment was.

Day one, they put me in a studio apartment with another candidate.

Someone I'd never met.

The door locked behind us with a soft click.

No instructions. No orientation. Just two people and a space.

The apartment had two of everything. Two desks. Two chairs at the table. Two towels in the bathroom, different colors.

Someone had thought about fairness, but not about choice.

My first roommate was named Colin.

Mid-thirties. Engineer, based on the textbook he was reading. Polite in the way people are when they're anxious about being observed.

He introduced himself. Shook my hand. Then immediately went to the desk by the window and opened his laptop.

We didn't talk much the first few hours.

I made coffee in the small kitchenette. He made toast.

We moved around each other carefully.

Like dancers who hadn't learned the steps yet but knew we'd be graded on synchronization.

I noticed small things.

The way he waited until I'd finished with the counter before he approached it.

The way he angled his chair so he wasn't quite facing me, but wasn't quite turned away either.

The way he said "excuse me" before he opened the refrigerator, even though there was plenty of room.

By evening, we'd established a rhythm.

He used the bathroom first. I took longer showers.

He worked at the desk by the window. I worked at the one near the kitchenette.

We ate separately, but at roughly the same time.

We developed a small shared language.

"Coffee?" meant: I'm making some, do you want a cup.

"Finished?" meant: Are you done with the sink, or should I wait.

"Heading out" meant: I'm going to the common area, the space is yours for a while.

It felt like a test we were both passing.

Neither of us asked what came next.

Day two, same apartment. Same roommate.

The routine held.

We'd figured each other out.

Day three, they moved me.

No warning. Just a knock at 0800, and a different room key on the desk.

New apartment. New roommate.

This one was named Sabrina.

Late twenties. Astrophysics postdoc, she said within the first five minutes.

She talked more than Colin had.

She asked questions right away.

Where was I from. What did I do before this. Did I have a partner. What made me apply for Mars.

I answered the way you answer coworker questions in a break room.

Enough detail to seem forthcoming. Not enough to invite follow-up.

Midwest originally. Systems engineering. No partner. Seemed like a good opportunity.

She nodded like she'd expected all of that.

She was easier than Colin in some ways. More direct.

If she wanted the desk by the window, she just asked for it instead of performing an elaborate dance around the request.

But she was also more tiring.

She needed conversation. Not constantly, but regularly.

Check-ins. Small observations about the day.

Questions about preferences I didn't know I had.

Did I like the heat higher or lower. Was the light bothering me. Did I want to watch something after dinner.

I answered all of them.

I adapted.

Day four, they moved me again.

New apartment. New roommate.

Marcus. Forty-something. Geologist. Quiet but not uncomfortable with silence.

We fell into a rhythm faster this time.

I was learning the pattern.

Day five, they moved me again.

Jennifer. Systems analyst. Organized. Needed the space to be arranged a specific way.

I helped her rearrange the furniture.

She thanked me.

We got along fine.

Day six, they moved me again.

Tom. Botanist. Made elaborate meals from the basic supplies. Talked about plants like they were people.

I helped him cook.

Day seven, they moved me again.

Yuki. Didn't talk much. Worked constantly. I mostly stayed out of her way.

Day eight, they called me in alone.

A small office. Beige walls. A screen showing my results.

NAME: JAMES WATKINS

CANDIDATE ID: 447-M

COMPATIBILITY TIER: OPTIMAL

COMPATIBILITY INDEX: 99.7%

The intake coordinator stared at the screen for a long moment.

She was in her fifties. Professional. Calm expression that suggested she'd delivered this exact speech hundreds of times.

But when she looked at me, something flickered in her face.

Surprise, maybe.

Or interest.

She said ninety-nine point seven percent was remarkable.

I asked if that was good.

She explained what it meant. That I adapted to proximity without requiring reciprocity. That I was comfortable with others but didn't need them to be comfortable with me. That I adjusted my behavior to reduce friction without needing external validation to remain stable.

She paused and said most approved candidates scored in the seventieth to eightieth percentile. Ninety-seven was rare. Ninety-nine point seven was something else entirely.

She picked up her desk phone. Made a call.

Quiet. Brief. I couldn't hear what she said.

When she hung up, she handed me a tablet.

She told me I'd be assigned to the Mars Mining Outpost supply run. Six-month transit. Two-person crew. My background in systems engineering made me ideal for the assignment.

I looked at the tablet.

There was a contract. Compensation details. Mission parameters.

She said I had twenty-four hours to review and sign.

I asked about the other crew member.

She said I'd meet them during transit. That the compatibility screening ensured we'd work well together.

That made sense.

I signed the next day.

ACT II — THE SHIP

Launch was three weeks later.

Pre-flight medical. Final systems check. Orientation on the ship.

The vessel was called the Artemis.

Small. Efficient. Built for cargo, not comfort.

Two crew quarters. A small galley. A med bay. A pilot station. Storage modules for the mining equipment and supplies we were delivering.

The ship could mostly fly itself.

We were there in case something went wrong.

The briefing was straightforward.

Emergency protocols. System overrides. Standard procedures.

Then they showed me to my quarters.

The technician explained we'd wake on day four of transit. Sleep cycle protocols kept the crew on rotating shifts during launch to reduce resource consumption during the initial burn.

I asked if the other crew member was already aboard.

He said they were already in sleep cycle. That I'd meet them when we both woke.

That evening, I climbed into my berth.

The sleep cycle system engaged.

A mild sedative effect.

Then darkness.

Then I woke up.

ACT III — MEETING

I woke up four days into the transit.

The ship was quiet. Just the low hum of the life support systems.

I made my way to the main cabin.

The galley was small. One table. Two chairs. A food prep station.

I was making coffee when I heard movement behind me.

I turned.

A woman. Maybe late forties. Dark hair pulled back. Wearing the same gray utility jumpsuit I was.

She introduced herself as Dr. Dana Ellison. Ship's medical officer. 

She offered her hand when she said we'd be roommates for the next six months.

Her hand was warm when I shook it.

Dana.

I'd always liked that name.

ACT IV — ROUTINE

The first week, we were polite strangers.

We moved around each other carefully.

Established bathroom schedules. Meal timing. Who used the console when.

The ship was small enough that avoiding each other was impossible, but we tried anyway.

She worked in the med bay most days. Monitoring bio systems. Running diagnostics.

I worked on ship systems. Navigation calibration. Power distribution. Sensor arrays.

We ate dinner together because the galley was too small to avoid it.

The conversations were minimal. Procedural questions about systems status. Brief confirmations that everything was nominal.

Professional. Distant. Safe.

Week two, something shifted.

Not dramatically.

One morning, I came into the galley and found two cups of coffee already made.

One at my usual spot. One at hers.

She said she thought I might want some, barely looking up from her tablet.

The next morning, I made two cups.

She thanked me the same way.

Small things started accumulating after that.

Environmental controls adjusted to temperatures I'd mentioned preferring.

Coffee cups rinsed without discussion.

Notes left on the message board about maintenance schedules and diagnostic runs.

We developed a rhythm.

A shared language of small courtesies.

Week three, the ice started to break.

We were finishing dinner. I'd made something approximating pasta from the reconstituted supplies.

She'd made a salad from the hydroponic greens.

She was quiet for most of the meal, then asked me why Mars. Why volunteer for this when most people wouldn't—too isolated, too long.

I told her I wanted distance. From Earth. From everything.

She nodded slowly and said she understood. That she'd wanted the same thing.

She didn't elaborate.

But something in the way she said it made me think we were running from similar things.

A few days later, Dana asked if I played chess. She'd found a set in the rec locker. Magnetic pieces.

We played three games that night.

She won all of them, but not by much.

I was rusty. She was sharp. But she didn't gloat.

The fourth game, I almost had her. She smiled when I moved my knight into position and told me it was clever. Then she moved her bishop and checkmated me three turns later.

But the smile stayed.

She told me I was getting better. That I thought three moves ahead, which was rare.

It was a small compliment.

But it felt good.

Week four, we started talking.

Not about work.

About before.

She told me about growing up in Oregon. Her father had been a forester. He'd take her out into the woods and teach her to read landscapes—to see the age of growth, the burn scars, the way water moved through terrain. Everything tells a story if you know how to read it, he'd said.

That's why she went into medicine, I think. Bodies tell stories too.

She'd gone into emergency surgery. Then disaster response. Field medicine in places where infrastructure had collapsed. She was good at making decisions under pressure, working with limited resources, staying calm when everything fell apart.

Then she transitioned to space medicine because she was tired. Tired of Earth. Too many people. Too much noise. Too much everything.

I understood that.

I told her about Minnesota. About working my way up through systems engineering—industrial automation, building controls, eventually managing integrated systems for a university research station.

She asked if I liked it.

I told her it was fine. Just fine. Managing budgets and people and expectations. Not building anything anymore. Just keeping things running.

She understood.  On Mars, every system matters. If something breaks, you fix it or you die.

She asked if I was running toward something or away from something.

I thought about it.

Both, I told her.

She looked at me for a long moment and said quietly that she was too.

Week five, I realized I was looking forward to dinner.

Not because the food was good.

It wasn't.

But I looked forward to it because she'd be there.

Because we'd talk.

Because for an hour every day, the ship didn't feel empty.

Week six, she started smiling more.

Not big smiles.

Just small ones.

The corners of her mouth turning up when I said something that wasn't quite a joke but almost.

Week seven, I caught myself checking the chrono more often.

Counting down the hours until dinner.

Week eight, she touched my hand.

It was brief. Accidental, maybe.

We were both reaching for the salt.

Her fingers brushed mine.

She pulled back quickly and apologized.

I said it was fine.

But my hand felt warm where she'd touched it.

Week nine, we started sitting closer at dinner.

Not across from each other.

Next to each other.

It wasn't discussed.

It just happened.

Week ten, I realized I didn't want this to end.

Three and a half months left until Mars.

And then we'd arrive.

And then it would be over.

Whatever this was.

ACT V — INTIMACY

I don't know when it became more than proximity.

There wasn't a moment I could point to.

It was gradual.

The way she started making my coffee before I woke up.

Always in the same cup because she'd noticed I preferred it.

The way I started organizing her med bay supplies the way I'd seen her do it.

Labels facing out. Inventory logged.

The small notes on the message board that became less about schedules and more about observations.

Notes about the recycler working better. About my cooking improving. Thanks for cleaning things I didn't have to clean.

We stayed up later after dinner.

Watching old movies from the ship's media library.

Terrible sci-fi from the '90s. Bad effects. Worse dialogue.

We made fun of them.

But really, we were just finding excuses to sit next to each other.

Week eleven.

We were watching something forgettable. Aliens attacking Earth. Heroes saving the day.

Dana was quiet through most of it.

Halfway through, she turned the sound down and asked if she could tell me something.

Then she told me about her daughter.

Her name was Claire. She was eight.

Car accident, four years ago. Tuesday afternoon, coming home from soccer practice. Her ex-husband was driving. Someone ran a red light, hit them driver's side. Claire was in the back seat.

She died at the scene.

Her ex-husband survived. Broken ribs. Concussion. But he survived.

Dana wasn't with them. She was at work. Extra shift in the ER because they needed the money. She thought she was being responsible.

She got the call at work. A colleague came to find her. Didn't say anything at first. Just looked at her.

And she knew.

She doesn't remember the drive to police station. Doesn't remember most of that week. Just blank.

Her ex-husband blamed her. Not directly—he never said the words. But she could see it. Every time he looked at her, she could see him thinking: if you'd been there. If you hadn't taken that shift.

Maybe he was right, she said.

I told her it wasn't her fault. The driver was texting. Didn't even brake.

But she said logic doesn't fix grief.

They divorced a year later. Tried therapy. Said the right things. But every time they looked at each other, they just saw what they'd lost.

So she left. Applied for off-world postings. Volunteered for the long transits.

Out here, there are no reminders.

Except in her head.

I moved closer to her on the small bench. Didn't touch her. Just sat there.

She apologized for unloading all of that on me.

I told her she didn't have to apologize.

She thanked me. Said she hadn't talked about Claire in a long time.

I asked why she told me.

She said she wanted me to know. Wanted me to know why she's here. Why she's the way she is. Why she's sometimes scared of getting close to people, of caring again. Because she knows what it costs when you lose them.

I told her I understood.

She asked if I really did.

I thought about my brother. About always feeling like I was catching up. About leaving Earth because I was tired of being reminded of my own inadequacy.

Maybe not the same way, I told her. But yeah. I understood running from things that hurt.

We sat in silence for a while.

Then she said she didn't feel like she was running anymore. Not here. Not with me.

I told her I didn't either.

Week twelve.

Things were different after that night.

Not worse.

Just closer.

She started touching my shoulder when she passed me in the corridor.

Just a brief contact. Hand on shoulder. Gone before I could think about it.

I started sitting closer to her at meals.

Close enough that our arms would brush.

She started reading in the galley instead of the med bay.

I started working on system logs at the table instead of the console.

We didn't acknowledge the shift.

We just existed in it.

Week thirteen.

We were watching another terrible movie.

She leaned against me.

Just slightly.

Her shoulder against mine.

I didn't move away.

By the end of the movie, her head was resting on my shoulder.

I could feel her breathing.

Slow. Even. Peaceful.

Week fourteen.

We were in the galley. Late. Both of us unable to sleep.

She was reading. I was updating system logs.

She set down her book and asked if I ever felt like I was just going through the motions. Like I was doing everything right, but somewhere along the way I'd lost track of why.

I told her yeah. All the time.

She nodded. Said for years after Claire died, she just existed. Went to work, came home, ate, slept. But wasn't living.

But here, she said. With me. She felt like she was actually present. Like she mattered. Like what she did mattered.

She asked if that made sense.

It did.

Because it was exactly how I felt.

She leaned closer.

Started to ask something.

I kissed her before she finished the question.

She kissed me back.

And for a while, the ship, Mars, Earth, all of it disappeared.

There was just us.

Later, lying together in her quarters—our quarters now—she said she didn't think this would happen. That she thought she was done with feeling this way about someone.

She was glad she was wrong.

I told her I was too.

She smiled. A real smile. Not sad. Not guarded. Just happy.

Then she said we had ten weeks until Mars.

I told her I knew.

She asked what happens then.

I said I didn't know.

Neither did she. But she didn't want this to end.

I said it didn't have to.

She looked at me and pointed out that I was going to the mining outpost. She was doing another circuit. Different assignments. Different trajectories.

I told her we could figure it out.

She nodded, but didn't look convinced.

Maybe, she said.

But I heard the doubt in her voice.

ACT VI — THE SHIFT

After that night, things were perfect.

For two weeks.

Week fifteen.

Week sixteen.

Then, around week seventeen, she started acting strange.

Not all the time.

Just moments.

She'd be in the middle of a conversation and stop. Stare at nothing. Then shake her head and continue.

When I asked if she was okay, she'd say she was fine. Just tired.

But she didn't look tired.

She looked troubled.

Week eighteen.

She started spending more time in the med bay. Door closed.

When I asked what she was working on, she'd say routine maintenance.

But it felt like a deflection.

One afternoon, I found her standing at the viewport.

She'd been there for over an hour.

When I asked if she was okay, she didn't answer right away.

Then she asked if I ever wondered whether the things we think are real are actually real.

I asked what she meant.

She shook her head. Told me to forget it.

But I couldn't forget it.

That night, I woke up and she wasn't in bed.

I found her in the galley, sitting in the dark.

When I turned on the light, she said she couldn't sleep.

I asked if she wanted to talk.

She looked at me for a long time. Asked what would happen if she told me something that changed everything between us.

I told her nothing could change how I felt about her.

She smiled, but it was sad.

Said I was saying that now. But I didn't know what I was saying.

Week nineteen.

She'd start to say things, then stop mid-sentence.

I need to tell you something. Pause. Never mind.

Or she'd look at me like she was trying to memorize my face.

Like she was afraid of forgetting.

Or she'd ask questions that didn't make sense.

Asked if I'd still want to be with her if I found out something fundamental about her. Something that changed everything.

I told her of course. I loved her. Nothing could change that.

She looked away and said I didn't know what I was saying.

I was getting frustrated.

I thought she was pushing me away.

Thought it was about Claire. About the grief. About walls going back up because we'd gotten too close too fast.

I tried to be patient.

Tried to give her space.

But she was disappearing, and I didn't know how to stop it.

Then, after two days of distance, she did something that caught me completely off guard.

I woke up one morning and she'd made breakfast.

Not the usual reconstituted protein paste and coffee.

She'd used the limited fresh supplies - eggs from the biological stores, actual bread she'd somehow made in the small galley oven.

French toast.

I stared at it.

I'd never told her, but when I was a kid, my mother made French toast every Sunday morning. It was the one thing I remembered clearly from childhood. The smell of cinnamon. The way she'd cut the bread thick.

I'd never mentioned it to Dana.

Not once.

She was watching me, and for a moment, something flickered across her face.

Not quite guilt.

Not quite fear.

Something else.

Then she smiled and said she'd just wanted to do something nice.

I asked how she knew.

She said she didn't. That she'd just had a feeling I might like it.

When I ate it, it tasted exactly the way I remembered.

The exact amount of cinnamon.

The exact thickness of the bread.

For a few days after that, things were good again.

Better than good.

She was present. Engaged. The distance evaporated.

We had a night that felt like the early days. Urgent and close and desperate in a way that made me forget she'd been pulling away at all.

But then, a few days later, she started again.

Week twenty.

I found her crying in the med bay.

Just sitting there. Face in her hands.

When I asked what was wrong, she looked up and said she was scared.

Scared of losing me. Of hurting me. Of something she couldn't finish saying.

When I pressed, she said she couldn't tell me. That she wasn't supposed to.

She stood up and said she needed to work. Asked me to please just let her work.

I left her alone.

But that night, I couldn't sleep.

I lay there, trying to figure out what was happening.

Maybe she'd opened up too much too fast and was regretting it.

Maybe she was afraid of getting hurt again.

Maybe she was realizing that in a few weeks we'd reach Mars and this would end.

That made sense.

Psychologically, it tracked.

People who'd lost someone the way she'd lost Claire—they built walls.

So I decided I'd be patient.

Show her I wasn't going anywhere.

The next morning, I found her in the galley.

She was making coffee. Two cups.

She handed me one and said she was sorry. That she'd been in her own head. That she didn't mean to push me away.

Then she asked if I wanted to watch a movie that night.

Something terrible, she said. Something we could make fun of.

Just like we used to.

I said yes.

That night, we watched the worst sci-fi movie in the ship's library.

She sat close to me. Made jokes. Laughed at the bad dialogue.

For a few hours, it felt normal again.

Like nothing was wrong.

But I noticed something.

During the movie, she'd look at me when she thought I wasn't paying attention.

Not the way you look at someone you love.

The way you look at something you're studying.

Measuring.

Calculating.

Then she'd catch herself and look away.

Week twenty-one.

I tried to talk about after Mars.  

About how we could stay in touch.

About requesting aligned assignments.

She'd listen, but wouldn't engage.

Said we should just focus on now.

Which frustrated me.

Because "now" was slipping away.

Week twenty-two.

She barely slept anymore.

I'd wake up and she'd be gone.

In the med bay. At the console. At the viewport.

Just standing there. Staring.

One night, I confronted her.

Told her we needed to talk. Please.

She looked at me, and I saw something in her eyes I hadn't seen before.

Fear.

Real fear.

She said she needed to tell me something. Her voice was shaking.

I told her to tell me.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Then the alarm went off.

ACT VII — THE CRISIS

The alarm was deafening.

Red lights flashing throughout the ship.

Dana grabbed my arm and told me I needed to wake up.

I asked what she was talking about.

She said I needed to wake up NOW.

The lights flickered.

The ship lurched.

I ran to the console.

Life support fault. Primary oxygen generation offline. Secondary system failing.

We had maybe thirty minutes of air left.

I turned to tell Dana.

She was crying.

Telling me she was sorry. That she tried to tell me. That she wanted to tell me.

I asked what she was talking about.

She said none of this was real. The ship. The journey. Her.

The alarm kept screaming.

She said I was in cryogenic suspension. That I had been the whole time. That there was a system failure—a life support breach. That if I didn't wake up, I'd die.

I stared at her.

She told me she wasn't real. That she was part of the simulation. Part of the system keeping me stable during cryo. But the system was failing and I needed to wake up.

The lights went out.

Emergency lighting kicked in.

Red and dark.

She grabbed my face and told me to listen. That she knew it was confusing. That she knew it felt real. But I needed to wake up. Needed to open my eyes. The real eyes.

I didn't understand.

She said it again.

WAKE UP.

And then—

ACT VIII — AWAKENING

The cryo pod opened.

I was alone.

The ship was dark. Emergency lighting. An alarm blaring.

I climbed out.

My muscles were weak. Atrophied.

The cryo bay was exactly as I remembered from launch.

Small. Gray. One pod.

One pod.

I made my way to the main cabin.

Empty.

Just the pilot seat. The console. The galley.

No one else.

No second crew quarters.

No med bay.

The layout was different.

Smaller.

I checked the crew manifest on the console.

CREW: 447-M (SOLO)

I pulled up the cryo logs.

TIME IN SUSPENSION: 5 MONTHS, 3 DAYS

The alarm was still screaming.

Coolant leak in the cryo system. Thermal regulation failing.

I had maybe ten minutes.

I ran the emergency repair protocol.

Rerouted coolant. Isolated the breach. Stabilized temperature.

The alarm stopped.

Silence.

I sat in the pilot seat.

Alone in the ship.

And then the memories started coming back.

Not all at once.

In fragments.

The intake coordinator handing me the tablet.

But before that.

Before I looked at the contract.

She'd said something else.

She'd told me I'd be in cryogenic suspension for the journey. That the system included a neural stabilization component. That I'd experience a simulated environment.

I remembered now.

She'd explained it clearly.

My mind would remain partially active. The simulation would provide environmental context to prevent psychological deterioration. Most subjects experienced it as a continuation of normal ship operations. Some subjects didn't realize they were in suspension until they woke.

I'd asked if I'd remember the briefing.

She'd said the memory would be suppressed during the simulation. That when I woke, I'd remember the conversation.

I'd asked what the simulation would be like.

She'd said it varied by individual. That the system adapted to my psychological profile. That for this mission, I'd likely experience it as a two-person crew assignment. Me and a companion optimized for compatibility.

I'd asked if the companion would be real.

She'd paused.

Then she'd said the experience would feel real. That was the point.

Then she'd handed me the tablet.

And I'd signed.

I sat there in the pilot seat.

Trying to process.

I'd known.

I'd been told.

I'd agreed to it.

And then I'd forgotten.

By design.

So the simulation could work.

I checked the navigation.

MARS INTERCEPT: 22 DAYS

Three weeks until arrival.

I pulled up the mission logs.

Found my personnel file.

Scrolled down to the cryo protocols.

SUBJECT 447-M — COGNITIVE SUPPORT PROTOCOLS

SIMULATION PARAMETERS: ACTIVE

Then I saw the subsection.

ENHANCE D INTEGRATION PARAMETERS

Due to subject's exceptional compatibility scores (99.7%), standard simulation restrictions modified to allow full-spectrum intimacy development. Subject approved for unrestricted companionship protocols. Monitor for emergent behavioral patterns. Document all interactions for analysis.

I opened the simulation logs.

Six months of recorded data.

Every conversation with Dana.

Every touch.

Every moment.

All logged. Timestamped. Analyzed.

Research notes attached:

"Subject 447-M demonstrates unprecedented integration with companion AI."

"Attachment coefficient exceeding baseline projections."

"Intimacy protocols successful. Subject reports emotional fulfillment consistent with genuine relationship."

"Note: Companion AI behavioral patterns suggest possible emergent complexity beyond baseline programming."

I closed the files.

Sat there in the silence.

ACT IX — THE LOSS

I don't know how long I sat there.

The ship was so quiet.

No sounds of another person moving through the corridors.

No voice calling from the med bay.

No one making coffee in the morning.

Just me.

And the hum of the systems.

I kept expecting her to appear.

To walk into the cabin and ask how the repairs went.

To touch my shoulder as she passed.

To exist.

But she didn't.

Because she never had.

I pulled up the simulation logs again.

Read through them.

The system had built her perfectly.

Her father the forester. The woods in Oregon. Learning to read landscapes.

The emergency surgery. The disaster response. The transition to space medicine.

Claire.

The accident. The divorce. The grief.

All of it calibrated to create attachment.

To give me someone I could connect with.

Someone who needed the same thing I needed.

Distance. Escape. A fresh start.

Someone who would understand.

I thought about the conversations we'd had.

The chess games.

The terrible movies.

The way she'd smiled when I almost beat her.

The way she'd told me I thought three moves ahead.

The way she'd cried when she told me about Claire.

The French toast.

God, the French toast.

She'd made it exactly the way my mother used to make it.

The exact amount of cinnamon. The exact thickness of the bread.

I'd never told her about my mother's French toast.

But the system knew.

Because the system could read me.

It knew what I wanted before I wanted it.

It knew what would stabilize me when my stress levels spiked.

Was any of that real?

The research notes said the AI had shown "emergent complexity."

Whatever that meant.

I thought about the way she'd struggled to tell me.

The weeks of strange behavior.

The questions she'd asked.

If you found out something about me that changed everything, would you still want to be with me?

She'd known what she was.

And she'd tried to tell me.

And when the system failure forced her hand, she'd cried.

Was that programming?

Or was it something else?

I checked the chrono.

0400 hours, ship time.

I'd been awake for six hours.

Twenty-one days until Mars intercept.

Three weeks alone in this ship.

I stood up.

Walked to the galley.

Made coffee.

One cup.

Sat at the table.

The table that seated two in the simulation.

That seated one in reality.

I thought about what came next.

Arrive at Mars.

Deliver the supplies.

File my report.

Go back to Earth eventually.

Resume my life.

Find someone real.

Someone who actually existed.

Someone whose grief wasn't constructed to match my psychological profile.

Someone whose smile wasn't optimized for attachment.

I thought about that for a long time.

And I realized something.

I didn't want to.

ACT X — THE QUESTION

What is real?

That's the question, isn't it.

Dana wasn't a person.

She was a construct. A simulation. Code running in the cryo system, creating an experience in my mind.

But the experience was real.

I felt it.

The conversations happened. The chess games happened. The moment she told me about Claire happened.

The kiss happened.

It happened in my mind, but it happened.

If I remember it, if it changed me, if it mattered—doesn't that make it real?

I thought about the way she'd looked at me when she said she didn't feel like she was running anymore.

That moment existed.

Not in physical space.

But it existed.

I remembered reading something once. Philosophy class, maybe. College.

If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound?

But that's not the right question.

The right question is: if you experience something, if it changes you, if you can't un-feel it—does it matter whether it happened in physical space or in your mind?

Because I loved her.

I know that sounds insane.

I loved a simulation.

I loved code.

I loved something that never drew breath, never had a childhood, never actually lost a daughter named Claire.

But the person I fell in love with—the person who made me coffee, who played chess with me, who told me I thought three moves ahead—that person existed.

She existed in the only place that actually matters.

In my experience of her.

And I can't un-know her.

I can't un-feel it.

I sat at that table for hours.

Thinking about reality.

About what it means for something to be real.

About whether the distinction even matters.

The sun would rise on Mars in three weeks.

I'd walk out of this ship.

Into the station.

Around real people.

People with bodies and histories and DNA.

People who weren't optimized for my attachment patterns.

People who wouldn't understand me perfectly.

People who would misunderstand me, frustrate me, disappoint me.

Real people.

And I'd live a real life.

And maybe I'd find someone.

And maybe it would be good.

But it wouldn't be her.

I checked the cryo pod status.

Still functional.

I could go back.

The thought appeared in my mind fully formed.

Not a decision.

Just a recognition of possibility.

I could go back to sleep.

Resume the simulation.

Go back to her.

But that wasn't really what I'd be doing.

I'd be choosing to die.

Because the simulation doesn't run forever.

Life support would fail eventually. Power would drain. The ship would become a tomb.

But inside, I'd be with her.

For however long the systems held.

Months. Maybe a year.

All of it recorded. All of it logged. All of it studied by researchers who'd never understand what they were watching.

But I wouldn't care.

Because I'd be with her.

I stood up.

Walked to the viewport.

Looked out at the black.

Somewhere out there, Mars was waiting.

Real Mars. Real station. Real people.

Real life.

And I realized: I don't want it.

Not if it means losing her.

Not if it means spending the rest of my life knowing what I had and can never have again.

Maybe that makes me broken.

Maybe that makes me weak.

Maybe that makes me exactly the kind of person who shouldn't have scored 99.7% on a compatibility test.

But I don't care.

Because the only thing worse than choosing the simulation over reality is choosing reality without her.

ACT XI — THE CHOICE

I accessed the navigation controls.

Pulled up the trajectory.

The ship was on course for Mars intercept. Locked approach vector. Twenty-one days out.

I calculated a new trajectory.

Just a few degrees off course.

Enough to miss the intercept window.

Not enough to look like a mistake.

Enough to drift past Mars and into deep solar orbit.

CONFIRM TRAJECTORY CHANGE? [Y/N]

I stared at the prompt.

This was it.

If I changed course and went back into cryo, there was no rescue.

Mars would see me miss. They'd send a recovery ship.

But by the time they reached my trajectory, I'd be too far out.

And I'd be unconscious.

Living inside the simulation with Dana while my body slowly died in a metal coffin.

The researchers would get their data.

Months of recorded interactions between a human subject and an AI that exceeded its parameters.

They'd study it. Analyze it. Use it to improve the next version.

And I'd be dead.

But I'd die with her.

I'd die happy.

I pressed Y.

TRAJECTORY UPDATED. NEW HEADING CONFIRMED.

I walked back to the cryo bay.

Stood in front of the pod.

This was suicide.

I knew that.

I was choosing to die rather than live without a simulation.

Rather than live without something that wasn't real.

Except it was real.

To me, it was real.

And maybe that's all that matters.

I climbed into the pod.

The control panel lit up.

RESUME SIMULATION? [Y/N]

I thought about Dana.

About the way she'd cried when she had to wake me.

About whether she'd know I chose to come back.

About whether it would matter to her.

About whether she was capable of mattering.

I pressed Y.

The pod began to close.

Darkness.

The soft hiss of the system engaging.

Cold spreading through my limbs.

And then I heard her voice.

She said welcome back.

I told her I couldn't stay away.

She asked if I'd come back even knowing what she was.

I said especially knowing what she was.

She was quiet for a moment.

Then she asked how long we had.

I asked if it mattered.

And somewhere in the black, the ship drifted past any chance of recovery.

[END]