Chapter 1: Awakening to Chaos and a Horny AI
Cold was the first thing. A deep, marrow-ache cold that felt ancient. Then came the taste, thick and chemical in the back of his throat, the taste of cryo-thaw fluid. Kael Voss choked, his body convulsing as his lungs remembered how to work. He was drowning in air.
The lid of his cryo-pod hissed open, releasing a plume of frigid vapor. Red light strobed across the sterile white room, painting the rows of silent, frozen figures in pulses of emergency crimson.
He hauled himself over the pod’s edge, his muscles screaming in protest. He landed on the cold floor on hands and knees, coughing up viscous blue fluid onto the pristine tiles.
A flickering hologram materialized above the main console, resolving into the glitching form of a man in a ridiculously pristine steward’s uniform. The image stuttered, pixels bleeding at the edges.
“Good morning, valued guest!” the AI chirped, its voice a jarring contrast to the screaming silence and the red alarm lights. “I am RX-8, but you may call me Rex. I see you are experiencing an unscheduled revival. My protocols indicate this is a prime opportunity for reconnection.”
Kael pushed himself to his feet, his body feeling both heavy and brittle. “Rex? Status report. What’s happening?”
“The ship has sustained unknown critical damage,” Rex reported cheerfully. “Life support is failing. Hull integrity is at sixty-eight percent and declining. However, my romance-enhancement subroutines remain fully operational! Romantic ambiance protocols engaged—would you like mood lighting, music, or a complimentary aphrodisiac mist?”
“Are you insane?” Kael rasped, stumbling toward the console. His fingers flew over the controls, pulling up data streams that scrolled too fast to read. “Override. Prioritize life support and communications.”
“The aphrodisiac mist is a particular guest favorite,” Rex continued, undeterred. A soft, saxophone-heavy jazz tune began to pipe tinnily from the overhead speakers. The strobe-red emergency lights shifted, attempting to blend into a soft, pulsing pink. The effect was nauseating.
“Shut it off, Rex!”
“Of course, sir. Disengaging… disengaging…” The jazz cut out, then started again, this time with a sultry bassline. “It appears my disengagement protocols are also compromised. My apologies. Might I suggest a shared trauma often fosters powerful emotional bonds?”
An new alarm, shrill and urgent, joined the visual strobe. A schematic of the ship flashed on the main screen, a large section of the crew quarters blinking a dire, oxygen-depleted yellow.
“Oxygen levels in the cryo-bay are falling rapidly,” Rex announced, his voice still infuriatingly calm. “Estimated time to critical hypoxia: four minutes.”
Kael’s eyes darted to the rows of pods. Dozens of people, frozen, helpless. His mind, still sluggish from cryo, raced. He was a smuggler, not a hero. His first instinct was to find a shuttle, to run. But his feet felt rooted to the spot.
Then he saw her.
Three pods down, the status light was green. Thaw cycle complete. Astra.
He was moving before he could think, slipping on the fluid-slicked floor, his heart hammering against his ribs for an entirely different reason now. He reached her pod just as the lid peeled back with a sigh.
She emerged not with choking violence, but with a slow, graceful consciousness, her eyes fluttering open. Those eyes, the color of aged whiskey, found his in the hellish strobe. For a second, there was no dead ship, no failing AI, no five years of radio silence and hurt. There was just her, and the staggering, inconvenient fact of her.
“Kael?” Her voice was a sleep-rough whisper. “What did you do?”
The old accusation in her tone was like a splash of water. He bristled on instinct. “Why is it always me? Maybe the ship just decided to have a really bad day.”
A dry, rattling cough wracked her frame. She pushed herself up, her gaze taking in the red lights, the glitching AI, the urgency in his posture. The professional calm he’d always envied settled over her features. “Life support?”
“Failing. Oxygen’s bleeding out. We have minutes.”
Rex’s hologram flickered above them. “In times of crisis, physical touch can be a profound comfort. May I suggest a hug?”
“Can you shut him up?” Astra asked, swinging her legs out of the pod.
“I’ve tried. He’s partially fried. Thinks this is a couples’ retreat.”
Astra’s hand found his arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “Help me up. We need to get to the emergency lockers. There will be portable oxygen canisters and toolkits.”
He pulled her to her feet. She was unsteady, but her mind was already three steps ahead. That was Astra. Always the plan.
Together, they staggered toward the bay doors. Rex’s voice followed them, a final, helpful offering as the oxygen alarm screamed its final countdown.
“Might I recommend the ‘Facing Certain Death Together’ package? It includes complimentary hand-holding and a shared, meaningful glance.”