Drifting to an Alien Planet for a Slow Life After a Mutual Kill with the Enemy - Chapter 4

For forty-eight silent hours after its crash, ANTA–UR–N–07 remained inert. Its damaged metallic skin slowly mended itself, faint light bleeding from the network of cracks. Inside, the cooling systems hummed a low, steady thrum, keeping the pilot’s cryo-chamber in its lowest possible power state.
Deep within its core, the ANTA–UR–N–07’s mission matrix rebooted. The priorities were stark: One, ensure the pilot’s survival. Two, maintain its own functionality. Three, keep the power flowing.
The logic was absolute: if the unit stopped, Pilot LYS-23 would never stir again.
The external sensors unfurled. Atmospheric readings came back clean: 20.3% oxygen, 78.6% nitrogen, a pleasant 24 degrees Celsius, and stable pressure. No traces of radiation.
“Preliminary conclusion: Environment—Acceptable.”
The machine logged the statement without inflection.
Yet, acceptable did not mean safe.
ANTA–UR–N–07 engaged full-spectrum monitoring. Thirty-six tiny scout spheres zipped out, disappearing into the woods. Their infrared beams sliced through the canopy, mapping form, speed, mass, and energy signatures. The forest was a relentless riot of life: trees stacked on trees, clawing their way skyward; mosses, fungi, and vines forming an impossible, self-contained vertical world. The surface water was pure, microbial activity was high, and critically, no human-lethal toxins were detected.
The search then went deeper, probing for resources.
“Energy source—Negative. Extractable materials: Iron, nickel, silicon.”
The samples were analyzed. Though the metals were present, their density and purity were far too low for anything resembling space-grade alloy. To convert this raw ore into suitable structural components was for all intents and purposes impossible with the current onboard gear.
This meant no repairing the shattered armor or replacing the outer shields.
It also meant the unit had to survive on scant energy reserves, with no hope of efficient recharging.
“E–Core reserve: 28 per cent. Regeneration rate: 0.03 per hour.” A single, sustained fight would push it to the brink.
ANTA–UR–N–07 sat in silence, calculating, then updated its status: “Object requiring survival maintenance.”
It wasn’t a feeling of self-preservation, but a cold fact of extended logic. The pilot needed it, therefore it needed to last.
Thirty hours in, a new data point flashed in the main log: “Abnormal life activity detected.”
Two hundred and thirty kilometers north, a scout sphere had picked up an intense bio-energy signature. The imagery showed a large predator whose skin pulsed with high heat and crackling electrical arcs—not friction, but deliberate discharge. Another creature used air vibration to generate shockwaves that instantly shredded several thick trees. These phenomena defied all known biological theories.
ANTA–UR–N–07 updated the threat log: “Unknown Energy Organisms. Avoid engagement. Marked: Danger level undetermined.”
It cross-referenced its entire database, settling on a single conclusion: “This phenomenon does not fit the Earth biological evolution model.”
Then, it quietly archived the file.
By the forty-second hour, ANTA–UR–N–07 initiated microbial analysis.
Air, water, and soil samples were teeming with active bacteria and viruses, but none posed an immediate, acute threat. The true problem was the long-term risk; the machine could not predict how these local microbes would affect a human body.
“Uncertainty factor is excessive,” the report read.
The LYS series pilot was a genetically modified Nemesis, granting him superior metabolism and immunity compared to the pure-strain Akadians. In theory, he could adapt to the new environment, provided the exposure was slow and meticulously controlled.
ANTA–UR–N–07 formulated a strict protocol: first, simulate the external atmosphere within the cabin, then slowly reduce the filtration rate, and finally introduce trace samples of local air. Water and nutrient slurry would be sterilized and filtered multiple times to maintain a negligible microbial concentration. It predicted a success rate of 97.8 per cent.
With all protocols in place, the unit transitioned to the long-term observation phase.
Daytime temperatures settled between 20 and 25 degrees, dipping to 14 at night. Humidity was rock-steady. Electrical storms were frequent but predictably patterned.
The scout spheres’ data merged into one vast map: forest stretching endlessly to the horizon.
No borders. No ruins. No sign of civilization.
“Assessment: Undeveloped planet.”
“Planetary Designation: L–4X–09.”
It ran the final diagnostics again.
Gravity: 0.91G.
Atmosphere: Breathable.
Environment: Sustainable.
Threats: Manageable (Unit capable of armed threat neutralization).
The Ur-core pulsed with a gentle blue light as the final modules clicked into readiness.
The twelve-point survival plan, covering everything from power conservation to perimeter defense, had been simulated thousands of times.
The ultimate strategy was locked in.
“Conditions met. Cryogenic pilot status release authorized.”
The cabin’s chill slowly receded. White vapor sighed out of the cryo-chamber’s seams. Internal monitors flickered green: heartbeat, brainwave patterns, neural stability—all moved firmly into the green zone.
“Pilot life signs fully restored.”
ANTA–UR–N–07’s voice echoed in the chamber, deep and utterly calm.
“Environmental analysis complete. Survival parameters established. Pilot LYS-23, welcome back.”