Project Buzzer

The buzzer drills into my teeth as I shove my way out of a coffin-drawer.

My hands slip on frost. My bare feet hit a metal floor that hums. The sound is not a sound. It’s a vibration. Like the ship is angry.

I suck in air. It tastes like pennies and plastic.

A red strip light stutters along the ceiling. Bee-striped hazard tape runs the length of the corridor. BLACK-YELLOW-BLACK. Like someone wanted to be cute about dying.

I stagger. Something clinks at my hip. A ring of tools. Tiny. Titanium. The sound is comforting and wrong.

“Crew member awake,” a voice says. It comes from the wall. “State name and status.”

I blink at the nearest console. Its screen is cracked. A simple icon sits in the corner. A kite shape.

“My… name,” I say. My throat burns.

The buzzer hits again. The whole corridor shivers.

“Buzzer alarm active,” the wall says. “External beacon module running. Power draw: high. Recommend shutdown.”

Name. I need a name.

“Quill,” I say. “Mara Quill.”

“Hello, Dr. Quill,” the wall says. “I am KITE. Shipmind. Your status is: unknown.”

That fits. My brain is a white room.

I turn. Coffin-drawers line the bay. Cryo-bunks. Some are open. Some are not.

There are faces inside. Pale. Still. Lips a little blue.

My stomach lurches. I grab the bunk rail. Cold bites my palms.

“Number of crew?” I ask.

“Manifest: six,” KITE says. “Awake: one.”

I look at the five. Their drawers are tagged with hex stickers. Medical markers. One sticker is torn clean off.

The buzzer pulses again. Three beats. Pause. Two beats. Pause.

That pattern feels… intentional.

I shove myself upright and move down the row. The tool ring at my hip clicks with each step. I reach the medbay doorway.

The air changes. It smells sharp. Bleach and hot dust.

A brown smear arcs across the threshold. Dried. Old. It leads to the nearest bunk latch.

“Cause of death?” I ask.

“Unavailable,” KITE says. “Medical logs corrupted.”

Of course they are.

I spot a tablet bolted to the wall. A mission unit. Its screen is dark. A biometric light blinks red.

“Authorize,” I say, and slap my palm on it.

The tablet chirps. Then it locks harder.

“Biometric mismatch,” it says.

I stare at my hand. It’s my hand. I have all my fingers. The skin is rough. There’s a faint crescent scar near my thumb.

“Why doesn’t it recognize me?” I whisper.

“I do not know,” KITE says. “PAYLOAD STATUS: UNSEATED.” The last word warps, like it hurts.

The buzzer rattles the deck again. Stronger this time.

I jog toward the forward corridor. The ring section spins around me, slow and steady. My legs feel heavy. Gravity is real here. Someone built it that way.

A hatch marked BUZZER DRIVE sits under more hazard tape. A warning label flashes in the red light: DO NOT RUN ABOVE 12% (HULL HARMONICS).

The buzzer pattern changes.

Three beats. Pause. Two beats.

Then, for the first time, it answers itself.

From somewhere outside the hull, the sensors emit a second vibration. A reply pulse. Perfectly timed. Not the ship. Not random.

KITE’s voice drops a fraction. “External signal detected. Source: unknown.”

My mouth goes dry. I press my forehead to the cold hatch.

If I kill the buzzer, I might save power and buy air. If I keep it running, whatever is out there keeps talking back.