“Ah,” Kael said. “So I’m the last one. The final candle. I burn until we arrive, and then…”

A door hissed open. A woman stood there, older, with tired eyes and a clipboard made of actual cellulose paper. Her name badge read: Dr. Aris – Chief Psych.

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

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

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.

There was nothing. Just static. Just the Odyssey .

“The Odyssey ,” he recited. The knowledge was there, planted like a seed. “Bound for Kepler-442b. 140 years from Earth. I am a soil analyst. My task is to test the hydroponic bays every six months to ensure the 5,000 sleeping colonists don’t wake up to sterile dirt.”

“Welcome back, Kael,” she said, without warmth. “Do you know where you are?”

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

He was a soil analyst. He understood dirt. Dirt was patient. Dirt could be rebalanced, replenished, made fertile again.

Dr. Aris made a note on her clipboard. “Correct. Now, the bad news. Hydroponic Bay 7 is showing nitrogen depletion. You’ll need to rebalance the solution. The good news…” She paused, almost looking human for a moment. “This is your final stage. ETAP 24. After this, the ship enters the deceleration phase. The colonists will wake in eleven months. You won’t have to be replaced again.”

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.

Because that was the job.