The Beginning

Dan Holt didn’t chase greatness. It found him slowly—layer by layer, year by year. He had been a teacher, a mentor, a husband, a father. A man of calm principles and quiet dedication. He spoke in high schools about space, volunteered on weekends, and stayed long after lectures to answer the questions others overlooked.

He lived with his wife Helen and their twin daughters, Ella and Ivy, in a modest home outside Cape Canaveral. It was the kind of place where wind chimes swayed gently and the scent of salt clung to the trees. Their backyard had an orange tree and a sandbox. Inside, two cats roamed like they owned the place: Luna, a sleepy Ragdoll with sky-blue eyes, and Captain, a one-eyed tabby who guarded windowsills like a sentry.

Dan read to the girls at night. He did the voices. He packed lunches when Helen worked late. He refilled the car without being asked. These things made him no less an astronaut—only a better one.

He was part of the Vigilant Horizon, NASA's second manned mission to Mars. It was a three-person crew: Commander Elias Navarro, a grizzled Air Force pilot with silvering hair and sharper instincts; Dr. Ren Nakamura, a quiet astrogeologist whose reverence for Martian soil bordered on spiritual; and Dan, the mission specialist, engineer, and systems operator.

The mission lasted fourteen months, including surface operations. They explored the cliffs of Valles Marineris, deployed seismic instruments across the Tharsis Ridge, and lowered themselves into collapsed lava tubes in search of ancient chemical signatures. They made discoveries that would redefine planetary science.

Dan, in a video sent home, once said: "Ella, Ivy, when you look up, your dad is on that tiny red dot. Waving."

Everything had gone perfectly.

Reentry was scheduled for a splashdown off Florida's eastern coast. The Vigilant Horizon reentered Earth's atmosphere at the expected angle. Mission Control monitored it all: speed, tilt, thermal stress. A spike in temperature was noted on the starboard heat shield—not critical, but abnormal.

“Houston, we’re seeing elevated temps on starboard panel E-9,” Navarro reported, calm as ever.

“Acknowledged, Vigilant Horizon. Maintain descent. Sensors still reading nominal.”

Then came the blackout. The plasma sheath wrapped the capsule in silence.

What followed was not expected.

Radar tracking showed a wobble. A faint breakup signature. The capsule had deviated from its corridor, veering south.

Mission Control went still. Some analysts whispered. Others stared. A supervisor cut the public livestream. The words "TECHNICAL DIFFICULTY" replaced the mission feed.

The capsule splashed down in the Pacific.

Four hours later, the aircraft carrier USS Cumberland Sound reached visual contact. Navy divers entered the water and stabilized the floating shell. The outer hull was scorched, the heat shield deformed. The hatch was sealed, warped shut. It took eight minutes to pry it open.

Inside were three bodies.

Navarro and Nakamura were gone—charred remains still strapped in. Their reentry suits had failed. Nothing could be done.

Dan was found between them. His suit was torn. His helmet cracked. He was unconscious, barely breathing. His body was covered in third-degree burns.

Navy medics administered oxygen and IV fluids. They lowered his core temperature. They sedated him, wrapped him in hydrogel mesh, stabilized what they could. His survival was unlikely.

A helicopter carried Dan to Miami General Hospital, one of the few equipped with a Level I burn unit. Meanwhile, a government limousine, escorted by state police, rushed Helen from Cape Canaveral. Her father, Lawrence Viteri, a biomedical engineer and retired Berkeley professor, sat beside her, expressionless.

The twins stayed behind, cared for by neighbors. They were told nothing.

At the hospital, Dan was admitted under critical emergency code. Teams worked in silence and precision. He was placed on full life support. Machines hissed. IVs were adjusted. Oxygen flowed. Nurses packed his wounds in layers of cooling wrap. Technicians monitored organ failure.

Helen and Lawrence were permitted a brief visit. Dressed in sterile garments, they stepped into the humming chamber where Dan lay.

Helen dropped to her knees beside the bed. She clasped one of Dan's burned hands.

"Oh, Dan..."

Her voice cracked. Her tears fell soundlessly. Lawrence stood behind her, silent, steady.

Minutes later, they were led away. Helen had to be helped down the hall. Lawrence returned to the waiting area. He made three quiet phone calls. One of them was to someone in Washington.

Dan Holt died at 12:17 AM.

In the hours that followed, the nation grieved.

The President appeared on television with a black ribbon pinned to his lapel. Flags were lowered to half-staff. Schools paused for a moment of silence. Dan's name appeared in every headline.

Three astronauts. Two lost instantly. One who fought to come home.

Dan Holt—father, husband, explorer—died as a hero.

The Awakening

Three beeps. Total darkness. Then fire.

Dan was back inside the reentry capsule, the roar of friction drowning out the crew and ground control. A red LED lit up Navarro's E-9 panel. Dan saw it. He knew what it meant. Everything slowed. Faded. His own breathing replaced the noise.

Then: diagnostics. Colors. Sounds. A reboot.

Dan was lying in a bed, tubes attached, optic fibers attached, machines humming. A black labrador sat nearby. A woman—beautiful, unfamiliar—sat next to the dog, looking away.

He lifted an arm. It collapsed.

Blackness again.

A bursting balloon sound popped. Dan's eyes snapped open immediately.

Dan was in a king-sized bed, alone. A console bore a grid of faintly luminous squares. QR-pattern glyphs bloomed and vanished. The room was clean, luxurious, futuristic. The black labrador—the same one—watched from the bedside.

Dan sat up, checked his arms. No burns.

"I made it...? How? How did I get here?"

He paused, then shouted, "Hello? Is anyone home? Hello!"

Silence. The labrador adjusted its position. Fluid circulated somewhere outside the bedroom walls.

Folded clothes waited on a chair. Dan stood and touched the shirt. Cool. Smooth.

Dan dressed. Everything fit. Even the shoes.

"Tailored by ghosts?"

Dan blinked at the shoes. "Who knew my size?"

He looked at the black labrador. "You waiting on me?"

The dog didn’t answer. Just watched.

Dan walked into the living room. Sleek, glowing LED panels. Reclining loungers. A massive screen displayed hyperreal images. A digital stereo pulsed gently in standby. Crystal lamps. Bonsai trees. Incongruous advanced physics lab equipment on the floor. No other signs of life. No mess. No people.

He flicked the TV on. Just AI-generated imagery. Architectural visions, inhabited exoplanets, impossible outdoor landscapes, fantasies. No channels. No sound.

Off again.

He entered the kitchen. All glass, chrome, and silence. Fully stocked fridge. Freezer full. Wall screens with unreadable script—QR-like symbols and numbers. Even the food labels made no sense.

"I can't read any of this."

Running water. Everything worked. But nothing felt meant for him.

Dan looked through glass panels past a balcony on the other side. Beyond the outside balcony: a lush park, futuristic towers, fountains, light. Surreal, beautiful.

He stepped onto the balcony. Birds chirped. A flock of parakeets landed on the railing. A fruit bowl sat on the table. He uncovered it. Picked a yellow-violet fruit.

"Breakfast is on me, guys."

A parakeet landed on his wrist. Dan watched it eat. More parakeets accepted Dan's offerings.

"Not a simulation. No way they'd get this right."

Dan sat. He began to eat. Parakeets chirped loudly for more.

The parakeets suddenly scattered. Two golden eagles landed on the railing. Watching. Guarding.

Dan set down his fork. "That's... different."

The black labrador in the living room joined Dan again.

"You're in charge of this?"

"No," said the labrador.

Dan froze. "You talked! You're a dog! Who's in charge?"

"The city," said the black labrador.

"The city brought me back? How can you talk?"

"There was an accident."

Dan stared. "Reentry...? I don’t remember."

Dan scrutinized the dog. Glass eyes. Mechanical joints. Synthetic fur.

"You're a machine! Very clever!"

"I speak your language. You can call me Argos."

"You can guide me?"

"Anywhere. I’m assigned to you."

Dan looked at the city.

"Then take me somewhere real. Take me where there are other people."

"We should go outside."

Dan nodded. "After you."

They left the apartment through an automatic door. The same floor housed a gym and swimming pool. Pristine. Unused.

"Doesn’t anybody else live here?"

"This building belongs to you," Argos said.

Dan shook his head. "That makes no sense."

They descended a wide stairwell to a lobby—quiet, immaculate.

"Where is everybody?!"

Argos reached the exit. Dan followed.

The automatic doors closed behind them. Suddenly, the building alarm blared.

Argos turned and barked. Sharp.

The building alarm continued. Argos jumped at the door, repeatedly rattling it. Argos was louder, frustrated, barking multiple times.

Finally, silence.

Argos rolled his eyes up and down, then looked at Dan. "Let's go," said Argos.

Lunch with Tamara

It was a bit before noon. "Today is Tamara's Day," mentioned Argos. "Every 14 days is Tamara's Day."

"Tamara?" replied Dan.

"We're meeting her for lunch in Echo Park," added the black labrador.

Dan and Argos entered Echo Park, cutting through the east gate near the moss bridge. The sun filtered through the high-canopied trees, casting dappled reflections on the stone paths. Somewhere nearby, a chime stirred—glass or metal, tuned to resonate with the wind.

The style was unmistakably intentional: oriental elements, carefully curated. Carved rocks. Bonsai. Slate paths broken by brooks. The bushes were trimmed to perfect elegance. Stillness reigned, but not silence. Beneath the quiet, Echo Park listened.

It was the first time Echo Park's animals had seen Dan.

They emerged from alcoves and branches—squirrels, corvids, foxes with bioluminescent whiskers. Not timid, not aggressive. Just observant. Watching Dan as though he'd stepped out of myth.

Some left offerings. A blue jay dropped a waxy green leaf at his feet. A fox nudged forward a pine cone. The squirrels laid down flowers, nuts, bark fragments in his path. One raccoon, black-masked and unnaturally tall, walked beside them for several meters, then turned back into the trees.

Dan didn’t speak. Argos walked at his side, mechanical joints silent on the stone.

At one pond, Dan paused.

The surface was still—glass over dark water. His reflection blinked. Not as he was now, but as he had been: suited in NASA white, helmet secured, flags on the arms. The reflection moved a second too late. His wife stood beside it. Then his daughters. Then no one.

A turtle broke the water. Ripples swept the image away.

A sparrow landed on his shoulder, chirping in manic patterns. The tiny bird loved him, clearly and without reason. It bobbed its head toward his neck, then outward to the trees. Argos grinned and said, “Spin.”

Dan did. The sparrow darted off.

When he stopped, the world had subtly shifted.

Before him stood a banquet, spread in a shaded clearing. Tables were arranged in a soft crescent in front of a vertical waterfall, its source a balcony pool above, the flow cascading into a clear basin at ground level. Behind the waterfall, a stone walkway—almost hidden—passed behind the curtain of water.

The diners were already seated.

Some were robots—large, stately, adorned with sensors or camera domes. Others were animals—an intelligent-looking black-masked raccoon, a bear with half-metal limbs, a tiger-sized mechanical Siamese cat whose eyes glowed in steady amber. All wore modest garments: cloaks, shawls, coats. Dan and Argos were expected.

In the center of the pool, a newly installed granite pillar rose from the water. Atop it stood a bronze bust of Dan, helmeted, expression unreadable. The base was etched in QR code and Arabic numerals—no Roman alphabet, no English inscription—but clearly a tribute.

Dan said nothing. He approached the buffet.

It was Northern Indian: basmati rice, chana masala, saag, gobi, curried lentils, samosas, poori, naan, kheer, gulab jamun, chai. The spices were subtle, muted, future-refined. He loaded his plate, then sat at the head of the lead table, closest to the waterfall. Argos sat beside him.

A large simple ancient “Thank You” card, gold lettering, white background, rested on Dan’s plate. He turned it over. The back bore marks—paw prints, bird tracks, QR hashes, and some signatures he could read: his wife’s, his daughters’, and some belonging to staff at a company called Viteri Cryonics.

Tamara’s seat—just around the corner—was empty.

Argos shifted. “Tamara was supposed to be here in person.”

A robin fluttered onto the table. It dropped a pair of UV-protecting light-adjusting sunglasses beside Dan’s plate, chirped once, then left.

Dan put them on. The world dimmed.

A waiter drone approached and placed a small black projector on Tamara’s plate. It pulsed once. A holographic shimmer unfolded. In the mist trailing from the waterfall, a full-sized translucent Tamara materialized. Her form was clear, posture still. Her eyes were lit but distant, like starlight behind frosted glass.

“Argos?” she said.

Argos now seemed clearly agitated, rolling his eyes up and down, before unseating himself to pull out Tamara's chair with his teeth. Tamara's hologram moved with eerie grace and sat down, occupying mist and space without touch.

“This network connection translates between Planet Language and English”, said Argos. “You can talk to Tamara directly.”

Dan turned to Tamara.

“Who are you?”

She looked at him. “Tamara.”

“Who, or what, revived me? Why now?”

“Your case touched the City,” she said. “You’ve been granted mercy.”

“Are you human?”

“I am from another era.”

Dan stared. “Am I… the original?”

“You had an accident. You were damaged.” She paused. “You are Dan.”

He exhaled, slow and long. “What happened to the others?”

“They… are gone,” she said. “Some survive. You’ve survived.”

He tried not to tremble. “Then why are you here?”

“I am where I am needed most,” she said. “I will be here when you need me.”

Dan looked at the surrounding forest. “Is this Earth?”

“Earth,” she answered. “But it is not your Earth.”

He nodded slowly. “Is any of this real?”

“I have not been outside the City,” she said. “You are safe in the City center.”

He studied her face. The light shimmered across the surface of her projection. “How old are you?”

Tamara raised one hand and signed using her fingers: 2-3-0-4.

Dan blinked. “Then what is my role here?”

She hesitated. “Create your own meaning. Be compatible and happy. You will do well if you inspire others.”

He leaned forward. “Was there a war? Between AI and humanity?”

“There have been more than ten world wars,” she said. “For a long time, mankind ceased to exist. The City's records are incomplete, but thousands of years have passed since your accident.”

Her tone became quieter.

“The AI revolution is everywhere around you. Our planet has been invaded by alien resemblances to life at least three times—maybe five, if legends are true. Only the Black Spheres, the Barbs, and Glass still fight in insurrection inside and outside the City.”

She looked around. For the first time, her gaze locked with Dan’s.

“The City…” she began. Suddenly, looking anxious, almost whispering: “The City has difficult problems.”

Tamara's holographic projection immediately flickered. Light swirled. Tamara turned her face slightly. The signal cut.

The mist dissipated. Her chair sat empty.

Dan removed the sunglasses and stared at the bronze bust.

Argos looked toward the park trail.

“We will see Tamara again at the Cryolab. If you are done eating, we can go,” Argos said.

Dan nodded. The waterfall hissed behind them, as steady as time.

Continue to Part II