The correction crew

The scorching evening heat emanated from spilled caustic machine oil on the ground. The air resembled a boiling cauldron, and every movement was a struggle. The ashen earth was scorched so much that its sharp scent hit the nose even through the filter. Rare veins of salt burst and popped from the heat. There were no hills or valleys. Sometimes a cutting wind would whistle across the plain. It carried quartz particles that slowly wore down metal. No one went out without filters and protective layers. Those who dared, never returned with faces. The dust clung to the skin, turning sweat into a rough mask. In the distance, the remains of former structures could be seen — antenna frames, charred drone chassis, dried water tanks full of poisonous wind. Everything was overgrown with erosive dust that burned in the light. There were no clouds in the copper sky, only high streaks of electromagnetic flashes, stretching like long trails in the sand. Old runways burned, half sunken into the sand. Ghosts of a time no one remembered. The burning paint scorched his hands, and the veins on them swelled to resemble exposed wires. The stinging sweat flooded his eyes, and the murky film covered all the diodes on the small circuit. Persistent traders, loaded with ampoules of haloid sand fuel, scurried around in dusty heaps. Their goods didn’t just clog engines — they made eyes leak, and the brain itched like an old radio channel catching a foreign signal. Occasionally, civilians passed by. Dirty, in weathered cloaks, with faded eyes under metal frames. They didn’t trade, didn’t beg for a handful of texes, holding out burnt hands — they just watched, as if checking for compliance with instructions. If no violations were found, they moved on. If they did find something — you disappeared. It was impossible to escape from here, he had realized that long ago. Waves paralyze ships and signals that don’t belong to the civilians. The node chip in his hand began to crackle monotonously and heat up. As night approached, a false calm settled in. It was as if the station exhaled. Then the gatherers appeared. They searched the trash, pulling out parts. Not one of them made a sound. In the darkness, only the thick buzzing of heat exchangers could be heard somewhere beyond the landing station. He sat, leaning against the hull of an old repair capsule covered in soot. The metal shell pulsed with heat, as if it were alive. Somewhere inside, rusty servomotors hummed. It seemed to him that the capsule was groaning. The food had long since turned into a tasteless paste, sticking to the tongue. The water — into a viscous, mineral-enriched sludge. Yet, that wasn’t the worst part. Worse was the realization that day by day, he was more precisely adjusting to the parameters. By morning, he was already standing by the module, waiting for the meal. As usual — two strips of synthetic protein mass and a portion of transparent liquid with sediment. Around him, worn, burnt faces with extinguished eyes. He himself only vaguely resembled a human: his silhouette was hunched, and his hands were covered in wet blisters. At the airlock, they were already waiting for him. One civilian — tall, fully wrapped in fabric. Instead of a face — an optical panel. The day of distribution had come. — Give me the number, — his voice was metallic with a hint of sand. It rasped monotonously, penetrating his head. — One zero two. — Confirmed. Number one zero two will be delivered to the node. Internal protocols are aligned. No resistance will be required. No one noticed when the civilians' ships made landfall. No one was supposed to see. Perhaps they hadn’t landed — they had just appeared, like a mirage that became too real. They stood at the outer ring of the station, in that sector where even technicians were not allowed. The path led along compartment B-7, where the walls were covered with signs from years past. They hadn’t been repainted in a long time — not because of forgetfulness, but because no one dared. He walked behind the civilians, not turning back. Behind him lay the compartment where he slept, ate, and forgot his name. A name was no longer needed. Only a number and a route. The walls with signs pulsed with faint light. They entered the airlock. The air inside was thicker, saturated with gas. His lungs resisted. For the first time in a long while, he breathed without a filter. The floor vibrated elastically. Something huge moved beneath his feet — not a motor, not a mechanism. They passed by chambers with semi-transparent walls. Inside — others. Some stood, pressed against the glass. Others lay, wrapped in cables, in some semblance of sleep. All their faces were equally vacant. Like masks. He tried to discern a reflection in them, but the glass didn’t reflect. The corridor narrowed. The light became soft, almost warm. And that was what frightened him the most. He didn’t feel any threat — and that was exactly what scared him. Too perfect was the air. Too quiet the mechanism. They stopped at a large door without locks. One of the civilians placed a palm on the panel. A moment — and the door spread like film. — Inside, — he said. Number one zero two entered. The door closed silently behind him. The room — a metal capsule, without corners, without furniture, with a ceiling resembling a filter. And opposite him — a person. The first living being in a long time. — Kay Organo, — he said, not even looking up. His voice was hoarse, with a metallic tint, as if a laryngeal filter was somewhere in his trachea, — there’s something wrong with you. The man with tangled hair stood, pressed against the wall. He crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his finger, which looked more like a faded bone. — Sam Kelly. It’s been a long time since I’ve been okay. I think I’ve started talking to terminals. — Good. Then you’ll fit in. The door opened silently, and behind it — a voice, familiar to the bone. Sharp and mechanical. — Carriers confirmed. Manual protocol activated. Objective: waste collection in the Orbit-zero sector. Vehicle: decommissioned-class ship. Loading within two hundred ticks. Kay just snorted. — So, they didn’t tear you apart. Lucky. Or maybe they need you. Though since we’re both here… What did you get locked up for? — Kay suddenly asked. — I was selling parts. And you? — Leptospira el kazei. — What? Sam turned in surprise toward his companion. — I killed a colony of those bacteria when I tried to desalinate the water… they were rare. As you can tell, even rarer now. So, is it illegal to sell parts? — Only if these are details from the ships of the civilization. Sam tried to smile, but it didn’t work, as though his mouth was clogged with dust and sand. The door opened again, letting in a dim light. The same voice echoed. — We request that one zero two and one zero four proceed to the loading bay. Kay and Sam exchanged a silent glance. Both were covered in dust and grime. Their conversation was like the grinding of two rusty gears — unnatural, but necessary. They moved toward the door. — Do you believe it’ll be better there? — No. But what else is left? They passed through several compartments, where shadows flickered. The people they encountered resembled machines more than living beings. They moved unconsciously. As they approached the loading bay, Kay slowed his step. He felt something change in the air. — This way, — said one of the civilized men accompanying them. He pointed to a door, which immediately opened, pulling them in as if devouring them. Sam and Kay stepped inside, and before them lay a scene that seemed like part of a hazy dream. The walls were covered with mosaics of fragmented, half-melted metal panels. In the center of the room stood a massive figure — a half-destroyed ship, its sagging metallic shapes almost losing their outlines in the dim light. — Is this our means of transportation? — Sam asked sarcastically, shaking his head. He surveyed the ship, which looked more like ruins. — More like a means of escape from us. And if you want, you’ll figure out what comes of it, — replied Kay. After walking a few more steps, he stopped at a terminal that seemed to have never worked, but was still connected. A message began to flicker on the screen. Sam sat on one of the metal fragments, eyeing the increasingly strange ship. His eyes grew dull. At that moment, the voice from the terminal sounded again. — Loading will begin in ten ticks. All docking systems are active. Sam stood. He didn’t know what awaited them on this ship, but he had a clear suspicion: wherever they ended up, this madness would never end. The terminal, embedded in the hatch, squeaked nasally. — Please state the number. — One-zero-two. — Please state the number. A deep wrinkle appeared on Sam’s forehead as he clenched his fists, trying not to lose control. — One-zero-two, please, I already said the number, — he muttered through gritted teeth. — Please state the number. — State the number! Damn you, brainless machine! A crackling noise pierced through the air. — Number confirmed. — How did you do that? — asked Kay. — Hit the terminal. Sometimes it helps. When the hatch opened and the noise faded, Sam and Kay stepped inside. The light inside was soft, muted, but still harsh on the eyes. There was no life around them — only cold metal. The civilized man, not looking up, approached a panel that had no buttons. He placed his palm on it: — Loading confirmed. Target: Orbit-zero. Wear level: acceptable. Autonomous systems partially active. Welcome aboard. The hatch slammed shut with a hiss. No levers, no control panels — it seemed as if the ship operated on its own. It wasn’t just a transport vehicle; it was an entire system in which a human was merely a temporary element. — Does it even fly? — Maybe, — Sam shrugged, — or it’s just falling too slowly. The ship’s engines began to hum softly, a light vibration filled the air, which subsided in a few seconds. The light in the compartments shifted, and now everything around them started to move, but without any jerky motions — smoothly, almost imperceptibly. Outside, beyond the porthole, the world continued to disappear. The dull surface of the station slowly became a dot before vanishing completely into the void. The door to the navigation section opened with a hiss. Control panels, lit by the pale light of console screens, formed a semicircle. Some monitors flickered, displaying incoherent data. On others, symbols danced, as though the machine were trying to speak a language no one understood. Kay entered behind. He glanced up at the ceiling, where thick cables stretched toward the central core. The faint, almost imperceptible smell of heated plastic filled the air. Through the porthole, vast gas clouds were visible, burning stars shone brightly, and it seemed as if they could be touched if one simply reached out. — What’s Orbit-zero? — Sam finally turned around, his voice hoarse, as if after a long silence. — Orbit-zero, — the answer came from the ship’s hull, — a sector containing space debris, remains of destroyed stations, ships, and equipment. High levels of wreckage and unstable orbits. A region unsuitable for normal vessels. Work protocol: emergency cleanup. Sam clenched his jaw, staring at the wall. He tried to process what he had heard, but it didn’t come easily. — Debris? — Sam muttered, snorting involuntarily, — you mean we’ll be flying through wreckage? Great. — Confirmed. Navigation through this sector requires extreme caution. The onboard autonomous systems are disabled. Switching to manual control. Sam screamed, jumping away from the panel. — What do you mean manual control? — he asked, sharply shifting his gaze from the terminal to Kay. The screen immediately lit up with a new message: — External systems are disabled. Manual control activated. No malfunction detected. Please confirm actions. The panel jolted — with a dull click, the internal system responded, as if waking from a long slumber. For a moment, everything went still, as if the ship had frozen. Then, slowly and with a metallic sound, a panel began to slide out from beneath the central console. Its smooth surface parted, revealing an internal mechanism. From the shadow, a steering wheel emerged. — I don’t understand, — Sam muttered, — why have all the systems shut down? — I don’t know how it’s even flying! I’m a biologist! Sam grabbed the control panel, but the system silently ignored his attempts to level the course. Everything around them shook — the instruments displayed unclear data, and the vibrations seemed to crack every bolt. — Damn, damn, damn... — Sam whispered, not taking his eyes off the shaking screen, — looks like we’re heading straight for this damn debris storm! He yanked the steering wheel left — in vain. The ship continued to rush toward the cluster of space wreckage. The tiniest particles were already brushing against the hull: each hit resounded with a metallic screech, and through the porthole, sparkling streaks were visible. — Well, can’t you even handle this junk? — Kay said mockingly, as those who laugh first do, to prevent others from doing the same, turning his head to glance at Sam. Sam didn’t respond immediately. His gaze was fixed on the monitor, where instead of normal telemetry, blurred symbols and distorted geometric shapes appeared. — I can, — he said hoarsely, his lips barely moving, — I’m just used to fixing it. Not controlling it. — Wonderful, — Kay snorted, — we’re flying in an unknown direction, and you’re back to your damn bolts. Maybe you should disassemble the panel now? Let’s see what’s inside before we fall apart completely. Sam shot him a lifeless glance. He muttered to himself: — I didn’t choose this. — And I didn’t choose, — Kay grumbled, — I don’t deal with spaceships! — We’re both here against our will, — Sam said quietly, — so don’t tell me what to do. Kay was silent for several long seconds. Then he stepped forward from the shadows and suddenly grabbed the steering wheel. — What the hell are you doing?! — Sam yelled, lunging at him, — let go! But Kay was already twisting the steering wheel to its limit. The ship jolted, and they were thrown to the side — straight into the heart of the debris cloud. Fear was clearly visible in Kay’s eyes. The hits grew more frequent. The hull screeched as if the entire body were about to crumble. — Are you insane?! — Sam barely managed to keep himself from flying into the panel, — you’ll kill us! — And you won’t?! — Kay shouted, not tearing his gaze from the instruments, — you just stand there and watch! At least I’m doing something! Sam didn’t answer. He stared at the screen. The onboard computer was silent, not responding to any commands. — Program! Program, can you hear me? Steer! Do something! — Sam screamed, his voice trembling, — come on, you can do this! You have control! Damn it, just do something! No response came. Only the sounds of metal grinding. Suddenly, a indifferent voice sounded from the speakers. — Please specify direction. Enter command to activate movement. He looked at Kay, who had stepped back from the steering wheel — he too was silent. He kept tapping his fingers — an elusive gesture, but it spoke: something was buzzing inside. — Where? Where are we heading?! — he bellowed, losing all composure, — doesn’t matter! Anywhere! Just get us out of here! Let it be anything! Fly to... I don’t know... anywhere! His tone was not commanding but desperate. It held no anger, only the weariness that comes from hoping too much. In response, the same empty tone came: — Understood. Direction: anywhere. Trajectory launch. The ship jolted, flashed with light, and shot forward even faster. Sam froze, shocked by what they had just done. They were thrown back, and the porthole was lit up by flashes. The space around them seemed torn. The contours twisted, the lines disappeared. — We won’t be back, — Kay said quietly, as if only now realizing what they had gotten themselves into. — Better keep quiet, — Sam said without turning. Kay and Sam exchanged glances. There were no more words. In the void beyond the porthole, fragments continued to drift, and ahead, dust and particles of space debris slowly spun, reflecting the dim light.