24: Etap

The intercom above the cryo-pod crackled to life. A voice, flat and synthetic, announced: “ETAP 24. Initiate neural priming.”

And someone else would say, “Nobody. The ship just took care of itself.”

People who weren’t stage twenty-four of a copy of a copy of a copy.

Kael smiled. A small, sad, real smile.

Etap 24. Stage twenty-four. He was the twenty-fourth version of himself.

He stood up, brushed the dirt off his knees, and walked back to his pallet to sleep.

Kael closed the book. He looked at his wrist tattoo again. etap 24

He opened it to a random page. It was a children’s story about a boy who planted a magic bean. At the end, the boy climbed the beanstalk and found a giant. But instead of fighting, the giant offered him a chair by the fire and asked, “Are you real, or are you just today’s dream?”

He looked at his hands. They were young, strong. The hands of a man in his thirties. But inside, he felt older. Much older. He tried to remember his life—the one before the ship. A childhood. A mother’s face. A dog. Rain on a window.

There was nothing. Just static. Just the Odyssey . The intercom above the cryo-pod crackled to life

Because that was the job.

Kael opened his eyes. Or rather, he remembered opening them. The world swam into focus—sterile white walls, the smell of recycled air, and the distant hum of the ship’s core. He was lying on a hard pallet, a thin sheet over his jumpsuit.

The silence stretched. Dr. Aris looked at her shoes. The ship just took care of itself

“You’ll have served your purpose, Kael. The colonists will build a new world. And you’ll be part of that legacy.”

He worked for ten hours straight, measuring pH, adjusting nitrates, repairing the drip lines. By the end, the plants looked greener. Almost hopeful. He sat down against the bulkhead, exhausted, and pulled out a small, dog-eared book from his jumpsuit pocket. He didn’t know why he carried it. He didn’t remember buying it.