Drifting to an Alien Planet for a Slow Life After a Mutual Kill with the Enemy - Chapter 3

The moment the enemy’s Erebos
$$Core-Guard$$
slammed shut around it, the humanoid weapon ANTA–UR–N–07 was blinded. Up, down—it didn’t matter. There was only the bone-deep pressure of the deep ocean, squeezing the mech into a dimension that was tearing itself apart.
Horns blared on the hull, a frantic, echoing shriek in the cockpit, yet to the pilot LYS-23, the sounds were muffled, as though heard through water. The hum of coolant became a sluggish, bass beat. His view was consumed by a kaleidoscope of blue and black, all data streams jittering, warping, and swimming out of focus.
“—Lost coordinates. Gravimetric vector unstable,” ANTA–UR–N–07 reported, its synthetic voice ripped and distorted like a mechanical gasp.
The
$$Core-Guard$$
clung like a leech to the outer shell. Its foreign mass pulsed in the energy field, a shield and a cage all in one. ANTA–UR–N–07’s core E-Core was forced to divert all power to the defensive grid, and the pressure within the cockpit spiked.
LYS-23 tried to punch in the detachment sequence, but the controls lagged, unresponsive beyond human reaction time.
“…..ANTA–UR–N–07….find a way to shed this
$$Core-Guard$$
.”
“….Execution impossible. The biological entity’s molecular structure is resonating with the E-Core…. It appears to have already anchored itself to the E-Core’s energy field, actively sabotaging this unit’s energy usage.”
“Can’t unlock the door, so you just cut the power instead… How utterly ****,” LYS-23 muttered, unable to help himself.
“Your metaphor is excellent, Pilot, though slightly inaccurate. Current diagnostics show only the combat module is non-functional. Life support remains online. Analysis suggests Erebos’s instinct correctly determined that destroying the E-Core outright would jeopardize its own survival.”
“Fine, then… keep things as they are,” LYS-23 sighed, a weary acceptance washing over him.
“Acknowledged.”
The universe tore around them. It wasn’t the sudden blast of an explosion, but the sickening sensation of reality being turned inside out. Every direction collapsed into a point, then simultaneously unfolded. Time felt like thick, syrupy tar, and photons crawled to a stop. The longer they remained, the deeper the dimension’s poison seeped in.
LYS-23 heard ANTA–UR–N–07’s voice, a distant echo from an impossible distance: “Wormhole interior confirmed… Dimensional drift is occurring… We are abandoning our home timeline.” He saw the
$$Core-Guard$$
outside spasm, struggling just as they were. Its light dimmed, its regular pulse stuttering wildly. On the edge of his awareness, LYS-23 watched the flashing white light slow, like a heart preparing to stop—
“Assessment…. Prolonged exposure is compromising pilot’s mental and physical health. Recommendation…. Initiate cryogenic sleep.”
“….Do it.” LYS-23 weighed his options and consented. Every resource conserved was a victory, and frankly, staying awake in this crushing, narrow space would drive him *****.”
Not long after the words fell silent, coolant began to flood the cockpit.
Perhaps this blink of an eye would last forever…
As random thoughts flickered through LYS-23’s mind, he followed the protocol and closed his eyes, protecting his vision.
…
No one knew how long they drifted through the wormhole.
In that non-space, ANTA–UR–N–07 became a slow, listless comet, dragging a dormant
$$Core-Guard$$
behind it.
The
$$Core-Guard$$
’s outer energy field was spent. Its hull was dusted with a fine layer of light, like a metallic tombstone weathered by time. It had shriveled into a sticky sphere, plastered to the mech’s chest, occasionally giving off a faint, ghostly white flash—the last flicker of a “survival reflex.”
…
Then, the static background of the cosmos began to ripple.
In the silent black, a weak but constant thread of gravity snagged them—like some distant, sleeping giant reaching out a colossal finger and slowly drawing them in.
Sensing the anomaly, ANTA–UR–N–07 jolted back to life after its long slumber.
The console lights winked on, one by one, and a low, resonant thrum vibrated through the cockpit.
“….Gravitational field disturbance detected. Verdict: Celestial body. Gravity value…. 0.91G. Cross-referencing stellar chart—No match found. Temporary designation: L–4X–09.”
The next moment, ANTA–UR–N–07 tried to kick in its anti-gravity stabilizers, but the attempt was futile—
They had exited the wormhole too close and were already captured by the immense pull. The defensive field was crushed into a blinding white arc, and the streaks of light outside stretched into a screaming tail.
The green outline of Planet L–4X–09 rushed up to meet them. It was a lush, vibrant world. Its dense atmosphere glowed a rich emerald green, and continuous flashes of lightning pulsed through the clouds. Brown mountain ranges lurked beneath the cloud layer like a silent, waiting spine, welcoming the visitor from the void.
ANTA–UR–N–07 initiated emergency braking. The machine tumbled violently in the gravity well, its outer shield ablating to a molten red. The
$$Core-Guard$$
was briefly ripped from the armor, only to snap back instantly; its viscous coating instinctively seeking protection, shrinking into the mech’s structural seams.
Punching through the high-altitude plasma layer, cabin pressure surged and temperatures maxed out. ANTA–UR–N–07 corrected its thrust angle, the fiery wake outside trailing for miles. Inside the cockpit, frost began to spiderweb across the cryo-pod glass. LYS-23 remained in suspended animation, his biological rhythms perfectly synced with the machine.
“Atmospheric breach complete. Altitude two thousand meters. Target terrain: Forest.”
“Preparing for impact. Brace for contact. 5…4…3…2…”
ANTA–UR–N–07’s voice remained utterly detached, merely reciting the numbers.
The ground was suddenly in their face.
A thunderous roar ripped through the trees.
ANTA–UR–N–07 executed a last-ditch pitch adjustment, the gravity generators straining at redline output. The colossal machine, enveloped in fire from atmospheric friction, plunged into the dense woods at a terrifying, ground-skimming angle, flattening massive trees and spraying mud.
After a slide that lasted hundreds of meters, ANTA–UR–N–07 shuddered to a heavy stop. The air was thick with the scent of scorching metal and ozone, and trees glowed gold-orange in the residual heat. Despite being covered in gouges and burn scars, the main chassis remained structurally sound.
“Landing achieved.” A steady, deep voice announced from the cabin.
“Status: Minor hull damage. System self-diagnostics commencing. Pilot vital signs—stable.”
The E-Core in ANTA–UR–N–07’s chest pulsed with a gentle blue light in the darkness, a steady, beating heart.
The
$$Core-Guard$$
was still fused to the machine, the white substance softly rising and falling like shallow breaths, remaining in a silent slumber within the wake of the energy field.
A breeze whispered over the fractured armor, bringing the scent of damp soil and foreign plants.
In the forest gloom, several pairs of eyes glinted. Pinpricks of light flickered, and unknown life observed the metallic giant that had fallen from the sky.
ANTA–UR–N–07 did not move. It simply continued to gather environmental data, logging the temperature, humidity, gas composition, and biological heat signatures.
In the alien night, it knelt deep within the forest, its core light steadily pulsing—this was its first night on a new world.