Phillip woke hungry again.

It was beginning to annoy him.

He rolled from the cot, caught himself against the wall, and waited for the stiffness in his legs to settle before placing his feet on the deck. The floor panels were cool beneath them, their surfaces textured enough to provide traction without catching against his skin. He took a moment and tested his weight before standing.

There was no reason to suspect the floor. He had crossed it dozens of times over the past two days. Still, he found himself checking where he placed his feet, noting which surfaces might support a sudden turn and which pieces of furniture would obstruct his movement. The habit made him feel better, though he could not say why.

“Feel it,” he said quietly.

The room remained dark except for thin amber lines marking the door, the cot, and the recessed sanitary compartment. He had learned the layout quickly. Four steps from the bed to the desk. Three more to the door. The food dispenser occupied the wall opposite the cot, beneath a ventilation grate too narrow for him to use and too well secured to remove without tools.

He crossed to the ambitiously described food dispenser. The words NUTRITION SERVICE glowed beneath its control surface. Phillip pressed the only option available to him and heard a dry rattle as several compressed clusters dropped into a small bowl. He had been told that the machine determined what his body required and produced it efficiently. Phillip admired that. He also felt vaguely insulted by it.

For some reason, the bowl made him think of a gerbil. He could not say where that thought came from.

Acknowledge it.

He knew the mantra was deliberate, and the truth of that was something he could hold onto at the moment.

He had spent the last two days in these quarters, his first and only stop once leaving the isolation room. He had not seen Lieutenant Thomas since their first meeting, and was informed that responsibility for him had passed to Lieutenant Commander Polson.

It seemed to Phillip that Polson answered questions when regulations required it and ignored them when they did not. Dr. Kales had returned several times to examine him and explain the psychological consequences of memory loss, temporal displacement, and prolonged stasis. Phillip suspected Kales was hoping to observe some of the side effects firsthand, and took a small measure of satisfaction in disappointing him.

Captain Getz had met with him only once, explaining that Phillip’s disposition would be determined when Artemis reached Curaçao. Until then, he would remain confined to his assigned quarters. Phillip understood the reasoning and had not argued. Arguing would not unlock the door, and he suspected it would only convince the captain that keeping it locked was the correct decision.

Getz had also promised to authorize access to news and historical material. Phillip doubted the request had ranked highly among the captain’s priorities, but the terminal had become active the previous evening. He placed one of the ration clusters into his mouth.

“K-rat kibble,” he muttered.

His chewing slowed. The phrase had come from somewhere. Heat pressed against his skin. Dust coated his tongue and gathered in the corners of his eyes. He was sitting beneath a washed-out sky, eating something from a torn package whose printed promises bore little relationship to its flavor. The impression vanished before he could find anyone else in it, leaving Phillip staring at the remaining food.

He did not remember what a K-rat was. He did not remember where he had eaten one or why the memory carried the taste of dust. He only knew that whatever had been in that package had not been much better than the contents of the bowl before him. Fragments were returning, but not really memories. He had impressions. Sensations. Knowledge that surfaced without its source.

Kales said that he should expect that and prattled on about pathways in the brain rebuilding. Phillip has begun to recognize how to sort the chaff of Kale’s knowledge from the actionable. A smell, sound, texture, or movement could reach something conscious effort could not. So far, nothing substantial had returned.

The fragments teased at more, but revealed only that the more was missing. The idea of what had happened to him lacked any emotional weight. Five hundred felt like a big number, but more relatable as a wager than any span of time. What would recovering his past actually benefit? Even if his memories returned, the people and places within them had been gone for five hundred years. Would he remember a job no longer in existence?

Phillip sat in the chair before the desk. Its surface adjusted beneath him, settling around his weight. A dark monitor occupied most of the wall above it. He tapped the screen and it brightened immediately.

“Good morning, Mr. Phillips,” Arte’ said. The voice came from no visible speaker. It was neutral and almost human, though its timing remained too precise.

“Privacy mode, Arte’.”

“Privacy mode enabled. Personalized observation and assistance suspended. Ship safety monitoring remains active.” The terminal chimed softly. A small indicator in one corner changed from blue to amber.

Phillip knew he was not truly unwatched. The ship still controlled the door, tracked the compartment atmosphere, and presumably knew where he was standing. Privacy appeared to mean that Arte’ would stop offering advice, recording preferences, or attempting to anticipate what he wanted. It was the option he had. It was enough for now.

A notification symbol pulsed on the screen.

“Oh, I’ve got mail,” Phillip muttered. He stopped, hearing the sarcasm in his tone. He let it go; better to remain focused, learn what he could before the weight of everything he did not know finally pulled him apart, before Kales could deliver a lecture about it.

A three-dimensional emblem rotated across the display: an uneven diamond divided by a narrow vertical line, its surface illuminated from within by faint blue light. Phillip recognized it from the crew’s uniforms and the jumpsuit he had been given. Polson had identified it as the symbol of the Terran Concordat, the governing authority of wherever—and whenever—Phillip now existed.

A prompt he read as MENU pulsed beneath the emblem. Phillip touched it and the symbol dissolved into a grid of options. The interface shifted subtly as his eyes moved across it, enlarging selections before his finger reached them. There was no keyboard, pointer, or visible control beyond the screen itself.

He selected the one reading NEWSCAST, revealing a new grid of images and text.

The lead story concerned a summit on Nirenda, a world within a region called the Ursa Cluster. Representatives were gathering to discuss the Cluster systems’ formal admission into the Terran Concordat. A composed voice summarized the report while columns of text appeared beside a rotating image of the planet. The symbols on the screen were not an alphabet Phillip remembered, but he knew them. The shapes resolved into words he understood. Not through conscious translation, just understanding. His mind recognized patterns and assigned meaning to them.

The recent war between the Ursa Cluster and the Concordat had ended with the Cluster’s surrender. Several militia formations refused to accept that surrender and were expected to reject any agreement reached at Nirenda. Reconciliation efforts were already faltering. Phillip read the report again. The names were unfamiliar. The distances involved were greater than anything his lost world could have contained.

The situation was not.

A defeated population. A peace agreement without peace. Armed groups whose identity depended on refusing the outcome, that felt familiar.

Phillip shifted his attention back to the script. How could he read it? Had the terminal adapted the text for him? Was Arte translating it despite privacy mode? Or had whoever altered his brain installed more than blank tissue and scars? Kales had dismissed the question when Phillip raised it. The speed of the doctor’s dismissal suggested to Phillip that he had no answer and disliked admitting that.

Phillip browsed several other stories, an exercise program promising “impossible definition in twelve minutes", a celebrity romantic scandal so biologically complicated that Phillip suspected he was misunderstanding at least part of it. Some things, apparently, did not change.

A chime sounded from the main door, and Phillip looked to the image that popped up in the corner of the monitor.

Lieutenant Commander Polson’s pleasantly stoic face appeared. “Mr. Phillips, are you awake?”

“Yes, Commander," Phillip answered rising from the desk. “Come in.” The permission was ceremonial. He had no doubt which side of the door controlled the lock.

The amber line surrounding the doorway turned green, and the wall opened. Polson entered carrying a sealed bag beneath one arm.

“Do you mind if I activate the lights?”

“Go ahead.”

Polson touched the control panel beside the entrance. A soft white glow spread from the ceiling and walls, brightening gradually rather than flashing on. Phillip noted that Polson remained between him and the door until the room was fully illuminated.

“The captain authorized the return of several personal items recovered with you,” Polson said. He placed the bag on the cot. “He thought familiar clothing might make you more comfortable or help stimulate additional memories.”

“How thoughtful of him.”

Polson either ignored the sarcasm or considered it unworthy of acknowledgment. Phillip opened the bag. The smell reached him first: leather, cloth, traces of something chemical that might have been cleaning solvent or cologne. Familiar without producing recognition.

He removed the long coat, trousers, shirt, belt, shoes, and undergarments. Each felt heavier and less responsive than the clothing issued aboard Artemis. The seams were visible. Fasteners had to be operated by hand. Nothing adjusted itself when he touched it. Phillip waited for a memory with each item, but none came.

The last item was the synthetic holster, empty. He looked up at Polson and tapped the holster, generating a hollow popping noise.

“The weapon was confiscated,” Polson said. “Civilians are not permitted to carry weapons aboard military vessels.”

“That weapon might help trigger a memory.”

“That is possible.”

Phillip waited.

Polson glanced down at his data-pad. “I can raise the matter with the captain.”

It was more consideration than Phillip had expected. “Thank you.”

He laid the clothing across the cot then looked back towards Polson

“Are you going to watch me get dressed?”

“No.” Polson continued reviewing the data on his screen without turning away.

Phillip stared at him.

Polson looked up. “I mean that I have no interest in watching you dress.”

Phillip shrugged, feeling no particular sense of modesty, and removed the shipboard jumpsuit.

The sequence came without conscious thought. Undergarments. Shirt. Trousers. Belt. He checked the pockets as each garment went on, his hands moving through a routine that felt practiced even though the clothing itself felt slightly unfamiliar. The belt sat loosely at his waist until he adjusted it by several holes.

The narrow strip of fabric caused more difficulty. Phillip draped it around his neck and tried several movements that almost became a knot before collapsing into themselves. His hands seemed to know there was a pattern but could not agree on what it was. After the third attempt, he pulled it free and stuffed it into the coat pocket. That also felt familiar.

Phillip sat and picked up the shoes. The moment he threaded the first lace through his fingers, the uncertainty disappeared. His hands tightened and crossed the laces with quick, economical movements.

“Now this I remember.” He tied the second shoe, stood, and tested his balance.

The clothes fit well enough. The coat felt natural across his shoulders. Its weight changed the way he stood, though he could not explain why.

He looked at Polson. “Now what?”

“The captain asked me to repeat the initial assessment questions and determine whether anything has returned.” Polson brought up a form on his data-pad and Phillip sat on the edge of the cot.

“Do you know your name?”

“My first name. Anything beyond that is what you told me.”

“Your earliest memory?”

“Waking in DECON-5.”

“Do you remember how you came to be outside the transit corridor?”

“No.”

“Do you remember entering stasis?”

“No.”

“Do you know what you were doing that far from an inhabited system?”

“Ask NASA,” Phillip replied dryly. Polson looked up. Phillip raised a hand, cutting off the question before it came. “Still don’t know what NASA is.”

Polson entered something into the record, then paused a beat, asking the next question carefully.

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

“Yes.”

The answer came before Phillip had time to consider it. Polson stopped entering data as silence settled over the room. Phillip examined his own response as though it had come from someone else. There had been no hesitation, fear, or moral calculation. Only recognition.

Polson’s attention remained fixed on him. “The captain added several questions,” he said more carefully. “Do you remember whom you killed?”

“No.”

“Why you killed them?”

“No.”

“But you are certain that you have?”

“Yes,” Phillip repeated, looking down at his hands. He thought he should say more, but then the lights flickered.

A rising mechanical whine passed through the bulkheads. The deck shifted beneath them—not movement exactly, but a change in pressure that Phillip felt in his stomach and inner ear.

“What was that?” he asked as he looked up.

Polson was already standing. “We have exited transit.” His tone remained controlled, but the tension behind it was unmistakable.

“Were we supposed to?”

Polson looked toward the door as a second, softer alert sounded somewhere beyond the compartment. “I need to contact the bridge.”

“I thought the ship handled that automatically.”

“It does,” Polson said, opening the door. “I am sure there is no cause for concern. We will continue this later.” He left quickly, and the door sealed behind him.

Phillip remained beside the cot. That answer troubled Phillip more than the alarm. His eyes moved to the clothing laid across it, then to the empty holster.

The question still hung in the room: "Have you ever killed anyone?"

Phillip removed the coat. He picked up the holster and slipped it onto his belt at his hip. He did not need to examine it to determine the proper position. His hands placed it on his right hip, adjusted the angle, feeling it sit securely against his body.

Phillip stood. His hand settled around the empty grip space without thought, his fingers brushing the fibers.

The position felt natural. Ready.

It did not feel like a recovered memory, just a confirmation.

Next Chapter: IV