The Dead Horizon

The Lombok didn’t land; it screamed. Metal shrieked against the thin, acidic atmosphere before burying itself in the red dust of Mount Rinjani. Silence followed—heavy, suffocating, and absolute.

Bima clawed his way out of the cockpit, his lungs burning from the ozone. Behind him, the ship’s internal lights flickered, turned a sickly violet, and then died forever.

"Unit 7? Status report. Talk to me, dammit," Bima coughed, dragging his boot through the rust-colored sand.

"Status: Absolutely wrecked," a voice chimed directly into Bima’s auditory implant, buzzing with static. "Your ship is a heap of scrap metal, Bima. And your life expectancy just dropped to about forty-five minutes. Hope you enjoyed the trip."

Bima froze, gripping his side. "Shut up. Where are the others? Lalu? Siti?"

"Lalu is currently bleeding out in the cargo bay. Siti is unconscious, probably dreaming of better career choices. Want me to play some relaxing flute music for their final moments?"

"I’m going to rip you out of my head," Bima muttered, stumbling toward the tilted hatch. "Just tell me if the internal sensors are still pulling telemetry."

"Sensors? Buddy, I’m running on a dying battery and pure spite. We’re in the dark."

Bima kicked the latch, his boots sliding in the grit. "Just find me a signal. Anything."

"System update initializing," Unit 7 replied, its voice shifting from sarcastic to a cold, synthesized chime. "Command received: Rebuild. Current objective: Locate the Mataram Pedestal. Reward: Survival."

Bima paused, wiping sweat from his eyes. "Rebuild? What are you talking about? I need a distress beacon."

"Distress beacon? How quaint," the system sneered. "We aren't in the Galactic Federation anymore, Bima. We’re in the Tutorial Zone. Now, start moving. The radiation levels are spiking."

"Tutorial zone? Are you glitching out?"

"I’m the only thing keeping your heart beating. Move left. No, your other left, genius. Toward the monolith."

Bima hauled Lalu out of the wreckage, his muscles screaming. The heat of the red sun felt like a physical weight on his shoulders. He dragged the limp body across the dunes, his breathing ragged.

"Don't worry," Unit 7 chirped. "If you drop him, it’ll be a lot easier to carry the rest of the supplies."

"If you say one more word, I swear I'll smash my own skull against a rock," Bima panted.

"Try it. I’m digital. I’ll just jump to Siti’s implant and tell her you were crying for your mother before you checked out."

"You’re a piece of work, you know that?" Bima groaned, hoisting Lalu higher. "Where is this pedestal?"

"Two hundred meters. Keep dragging your friend. You're making excellent time for a dying man."

Bima didn't stop. He pushed through the fatigue, his vision swimming with heat haze. He could see it now—a massive slab of obsidian-black stone rising from the sand like a tombstone. It was covered in pulsing, neon-blue circuitry that defied the primitive landscape.

"Is that it?" Bima wheezed, dropping Lalu onto the cool stone base.

"That's it. Touch the interface. Or don't. I hear the radiation poisoning is quite colorful in the final stages."

Bima ignored the voice and staggered toward the center of the pedestal. His hand hovered over a smooth, glass-like surface embedded in the rock.

"Just put your hand on it, Bima," Unit 7 whispered, its voice uncharacteristically soft. "Don't blink."

Bima pressed his palm against the glass. The device hummed, a vibration running up his arm and straight into his teeth. The sand around them shifted, and suddenly, a massive, flickering blue light erupted from the pedestal, casting long, dancing shadows across the desert.

It wasn't just a light. It was a projection.

Bima gasped, stepping back. Floating in the air before him was a holographic globe. It was Earth—the swirling blue oceans, the familiar continents, the white clouds.

"See it?" Unit 7 asked.

Bima stared, his throat tightening. "Yeah. It's home."

"Look closer, Captain."

Bima leaned in. The oceans weren't blue anymore. They were charred, scorched black veins running through a cracked, grey husk. The atmosphere was boiling, and the entire planet was slowly being dismantled by massive, mechanical rings.

"What is that?" Bima whispered, his voice trembling. "That’s not Earth. That’s a grave."

"That," Unit 7 said, its tone shifting to a terrifying, absolute finality, "is what’s left of your future. And you’re the one who’s going to fix it."