"Rebooting x3145-B, task 157: Execute."

Bob hung in space, his suit arms moved slowly in the null-g environment. He had done his fair share of spacewalks, and this one was nothing different. Micrometeorite impact, need to un-solder the panel, replace with a new one.

Bob was on a mission to Alpha Centauri, part of the maintenance team, hand chosen by heads of state. "The honored few" he reminisced. A signal light came on, this panel won’t fix itself. He moved with practiced precision, a perfect un-weld here, a perfect un-weld there. He noticed the micrometeorite had caused some damage to an adjoining panel, asked the ship for an additional one. Better to be safe than sorry.

As Bob waited for the panel to be delivered, he thought of home. His farmhouse in Kansas. He loved the flatness — more efficient to till the fields. He pictured the family he left behind, each face as sharp as a photograph. He remembered her scent most of all — warm plastic and the faint tang of oil on skin, like the workshop after a long day. Comforting, familiar, and somehow strange. The memory played back with clinical clarity, every detail in perfect order. Even the way her hair drooped just right over her left cheek. The sharper and more precise the memory, the more it unsettled him.

His thoughts shifted to the meeting with the program director, when he begged to have her added to the roster. The man’s eyes had shifted, his expression almost annoyed. It seemed like eternity before his voice rose, practiced and vague: “Yes, she would be on the next transport, of course.” The words had made him uncomfortable even then — too smooth, too practiced, like oil across steel, with no warmth at all.

The panel came into view and he took it to align it back onto the ship. 0.03 mm of precision — this panel needed to go on perfect. He tack welded it into place before working to put the perfect bead of weld back into place.

He let his mind wander as he worked. His selection for the mission hadn’t actually been as glamorous as the others. Fleet Admiral Jo Kakonan, 1st lieutenant Leory McCade. The rest of the crew slept in their cryo chambers. Most had specialties in colonization studies, atmospheric work, settlement structure planning and development. But his work would always be needed. There was always a need for an engineer. He smiled as the last of the beads landed with a perfect structure.

He gave it a final tap to make sure it would hold, then reached for his breathing tube, ready to head back.

It wasn’t there.

Panic surged. Had it snapped off? Did he forget to put it on? He pawed at his chest, his throat, searching for the connection. The suit had a port, but it wasn’t connected. He quickly checked his O₂ gauge. 0/0. The silence pressed harder than the void around him. His lungs should have burned, but they didn’t. How was he still alive? He pulled off a glove to check his hand underneath. But it wasn’t his hand. Metal, not skin. He flexed his fingers and they moved slowly closed and back open. His mind raced. How could this be? Fingers of steel, but he was breathing.

“What is going on…” he thought, just before the black closed in.

"Rebooting x3145-B, task 178: Execute."