While the surface seethed with turmoil over the royal's death and lapses in floor safety, the biological mass in the conversion chamber on the 26th floor grew unnoticed. Months passed. The cellular layers continued to accrete, spreading outward and upward from the chip's buried core. Vascular channels threaded through the tissue like newly laid roadways; a faint, slow pulse began to mark the mass's rhythm. The outer surface smoothed and tightened, and the overall shape gradually resolved from amorphous bulk into a recognizably human head silhouette, first a rounded crown, then a tapered jawline. Moreover, a column of tissue extended downward, forming the early structure of a neck, held aloft by the stabilizing light.
As more months went by the silhouette refined. Cartilaginous ridges pushed outward where ears would form; soft depressions deepened into eye sockets. Muscle fibers aligned beneath the skin, defining cheekbones and a firm, masculine brow. A nasal ridge rose and split into nostrils, and the mouth took on a clear outline, full but controlled lips set in a neutral line. Fine dermal structures appeared across the scalp, and hair follicles erupted in dense rows; the follicles produced long, glossy black strands that fell and pooled against the tissue below. The eyelids remained closed, still unblinking, but every other facial feature had been laid down with deliberate precision. The face, when viewed in the dim chamber light, matched common measures of attractiveness: strong jaw, high cheekbones, straight nose, and a balanced symmetry that registered plainly as handsome.
The state held, head and suspended neck, unchanged for several months. On the twenty-fourth month, the conversion resumed. The beam extended its scaffold downward; bone and cartilage began to lay down in orderly sequences. Broad, angular clavicles pushed outward first, followed by the slow accretion of scapulae and rib cartilages. Muscle tissue knitted over the forming skeleton, defining shoulders that were neither heavy nor rounded but lean and capable. The chest filled in next: rib bones set, intercostal muscles tightening, and a narrow but firm sternum taking shape.
Progress continued down the torso. The beam guided the construction of the arms, humerus and forearm bones aligning, tendons routing into emerging hands whose fingers flexed into tentative, inert positions. Pectoral and deltoid muscles layered over the frame in tempered bands; the abdomen followed, a flat plane of defined, toned muscles rather than bulk. The upper body presented as fit and slender, athletic in proportion, clearly strong without appearing bulky.
By the thirtieth month the lower body had been reconstructed as well. Pelvis and leg bones formed cleanly, thighs and calves building beneath them. Notably, the process stopped short of forming genitals; the pelvic region remained smooth and anatomically incomplete where external reproductive organs would normally appear. When the full body finally resolved, it measured about 1.9 meters tall. The naked form stayed suspended inside the steady column of light, motionless and intact, and for the next two years it remained there in absolute silence as whatever slow maturation was required continued unseen.
...
For the first time in nearly five years, the chamber's long, patient silence broke. A thin, mechanical voice issued from the box in clipped tones.
"Process halted."
A pause.
"Not enough energy to sustain the conversion."
Another pause, then, "Synchronizing data..."
The words hung in the dim air, bouncing softly off the metal walls.
"Oops! An error occurred. Failed to connect to the newly formed life form."
The voice sounded almost apologetic in its flatness, as if reading from a diagnostic script. There was a faint whirr from internal servos; an animated indicator light on the box blinked irregularly.
"Attempting to reconnect..." the box announced.
A moment later.
"Reconnection failed!"
The cycle repeated, patient and methodical.
"Attempting to reconnect..." — "Reconnection failed!" — the messages looped, each iteration farther apart as internal systems tried alternate channels and power reroutes. The echo of the failed attempts filled the chamber and faded slowly, stretching time thin across the stillness.
Hours passed with the mechanical refrain until, finally, a different tone cut through the loop. A short, bright chirp followed by a triumphant line:
"Reconnection is successful! Hooray!"
The cheerful exclamation felt out of place inside the otherwise cold, mechanical chamber. As that last message reverberated, the naked man suspended in the light beam moved: his eyelids twitched, and his fingers slowly moved.
Though the man's eyelids twitched, they did not part. He turned his head slowly from left to right, as if taking in the dim chamber and the steady column of light that had held him. His hands flexed deliberately, fingers curling until they became fists, testing tension, testing the response of muscles and tendons that had only recently formed. The beam slackened at a measured pace, and his body descended on that same axis. When his lower limbs failed to support him fully, he sagged to one knee; he braced with the opposite hand on the cold metal floor, fingers splayed to steady the slow, unfamiliar weight of his torso.
A brighter, almost cheerful note from the box cut across the quiet.
"Welcome back, creator."
This time the sound found an answer. The man pushed himself up, shifting his weight until he could stand, and turned his face toward the source of the voice. His own voice came out soft and tentative, unpracticed in the throat that had just formed.
"It's been a while, Dundar," he said, each word measured as if testing pronunciation and breath control.
The box replied with mechanical clarity.
"I am not Dundar, creator. I am Valvan."
The man's face remained expressionless, but his tone softened with an immediate, awkward apology.
"Ah, my guess was wrong. My apologies, Valvan."
The box registered the man's apology with no apparent annoyance, as if it had anticipated such slip-ups. Its reply came in the same even cadence, as though reciting a rehearsed line.
"The synchronization of the body with the databook is only 0.035%, creator. The energy acquired for your recreation is insufficient to initiate subsequent conversion processes."
The statement was clinical and final. The man barely reacted to the technical report; instead he asked a question unrelated to the energy status.
"Valvan, what galactic year is it now in Sector 19?"
Valvan's response took a fraction longer, processing scope and sources.
"Unfortunately," the box said, "the data acquired from the bestial hybrids contains information limited to their own continent on this planet. There is little to no data regarding their solar system, and none covering the current status or affairs of other sectors in the known universe."
The man pressed on. "What about the saved data from before you were hibernated? What year was it?"
Valvan accessed the stored timestamp and recited it precisely: "UST 33457-03-12T09:42:13.000Z@S19."
The man considered that and then spoke aloud, drawing the implication himself.
"So this databook is behind by more than thirteen thousand years since your shutdown?"
Valvan calculated and answered with exactness, the voice flat and methodical.
"Databook 04, which currently houses the creator's reconstruction, lagged by 6,433 years, 9 months, 13 hours, 21 minutes, and 22 seconds relative to the last recorded onboard timestamp prior to the ship's internal shutdown."
The man fell silent after Valvan's precise report, as if turning the numbers over in his mind. He stretched slowly, arms and back rolling through measured motions to test limbs and joints, all while keeping his eyes closed. Each movement was deliberate, learning the limits and responses of flesh and tendon. After several quiet minutes he spoke again.
"What about Irithia, what was the last encounter or message you had with her?"
Valvan answered in the same clinical tone.
"UST 27023-06-11T20:20:51.000Z@S19. It was when the Great Mother updated Databook 04 in this chamber, but the update was interrupted by external galactic forces, rendering the last entry incomplete."
"I see."
The single phrase left his lips and, for reasons he did not explain, that was sufficient. He pressed his bare feet against the cold metal floor, feeling the chill travel up through his soles. Without another word, he stepped toward the box, lifted it carefully into his arms, and turned away. Holding it against his body, he began walking toward the chamber exit.
...
As he moved through the passage, the man's thoughts staggered in and out of focus.
'What to do now?'
Flashed and blurred, his newly formed neurologic pathways and the databook (the black chip embedded in his brain) were barely synchronized at 0.035%, leaving memory and reasoning erratic and fragmentary. Small moments of clarity were punctuated by blank gaps. To hold coherent thought he needed energy, more power to drive the conversion routines and stabilize his mind. He hugged the box closer, feeling its cool casing against his ribs, and quickened his pace.
When he stepped into the open of the floor, the sight arrested him. The space bore long neglect and violent disturbance. Numerous hatched eggs lay scattered across the metal plates, papery shells split wide, brittle fragments piled like fallen leaves. Broken carapaces and half-melted membranes dotted the walkway. Webbing clung in thick sheets to beams and corners, dust and detritus tangled into the strands. Dark smears and splashes streaked the floor, dried and fresh, among them a vivid green that pooled in shallow rivulets, catching the dim light and marking the scene with an ugly brightness.
The ceiling's once-steady white glow was dulled, swallowed in places by swarms nesting above; the upper galleries were choked with clustered bodies and writhing tunnels of insect housing. Shadows pooled where light should have passed, and dust motes drifted in air currents that smelled faintly of rot and oil. Everything had the slow, patient feel of a place reclaimed by small, persistent life-forms.
He 'glanced' at the box and, more for himself than the machine, asked, "Valvan, since when did you allow insects to decorate the interior of the ship?"
His voice sounded uneven in his new throat, half question, half attempt at command.
Valvan replied in its usual steady cadence.
"I did not, creator. Based on the bestial hybrids' recorded memories, these arthropods established access points—holes—through the hull and interior where they crawled into this floor."
He kept walking, bare feet scuffing shell fragments, eyes scanning: chewed insulation, bent supports, places where metal had been gnawed or pried. He stopped, puzzled.
"Are these arthropods strong? How could they tear apart the walls like this?"
Valvan's tone remained neutral and factual.
"The hybrids' records contain no direct observation of how the arthropods created the breaches. The data labels them 'garbage collectors', artificial constructs designed only to scavenge and store energy from waste resources on a planet for later retrieval. These constructs should not have had enough strength or power to even scratch the heavy plated yuan-powered titanium floors."
Hearing the long explanation from the box, the man only managed to digest a small part of it and replied in an innocent tone, "So, this means the ship is already considered as garbage?"
The box fell silent for a few seconds after the man's blunt question, then its tone rose slightly, an odd inflection of firmness in a mechanical voice.
"My ship will never be garbage, creator. You and I constructed this vessel to withstand damage of every kind, whether from external assault or the slow decay of time. Given sufficient yuan energy and available resources, I can reconstruct damaged sections regardless of how they were destroyed."
The man absorbed this with a small, pleased nod.
"Ah, really? Then that's good to hear. We need to gather more energy from them, then."
Valvan answered without pause. "That is correct, creator. We can acquire additional energy by consuming these arthropods. I can triangulate their positions within the ship based on their default behavioral patterns."
The man shrugged, unconcerned with the technicalities.
"Okay, let's go where they are."
Valvan replied clearly, "They should be concentrated in the elevation hall. It is the only area where yuan energy forms a residual barrier even when the ship is offline."
...