The crew of Avalon awakens without incident. Diagnostics pass. Ship functions nominal. Captain Norris leads a small team to inspect the public decks.
Then they see it.
A garden has consumed the Grand Concourse: overgrown vines climbing the support beams, recycled lighting used to simulate day/night cycles, a towering tree with a circular bench at its base.
Two graves rest beneath it.
There's a sound from the bar: glasses clinking.
Arthur.
His plating is worn, but his smile is unchanged.
"Hello, friends! Can I offer you a drink for the end… or rather, the beginning… of the world as you know it?"
Arthur's Story
Arthur becomes the crew's unexpected guide. Though his memory was partially fragmented by decades of degradation and amateur repairs, key logs remained intact—video clips, voice recordings, and one final message.
Aurora Lane appears on screen. She's in her sixties now, silver hair tied back, skin leathery from years under artificial sun.
"To the crew of Avalon: My name is Aurora Lane. I was never meant to be awake. Neither was Jim Preston. He died years ago. I chose to stay behind."
She pauses beside Jim's grave, hand on the soil.
"The med bay had one cryopod. He gave it to me. And I gave it back."
Her voice tightens, less grief, more steel.
"We made a life out of nothing. We kept the ship alive. Every hydro-line patched, every capacitor recalibrated—that was him. I wrote every passenger's psychological profile again from scratch because the original records had degraded. That was me."
She looks into the camera.
"We earned our place on this ship. But you'll decide whether we deserve to be remembered."
"If you choose to erase us, at least have the courage to know what you're doing. Say it out loud: we chose silence over truth."
Arthur's Testimony
Arthur gives the crew something no data log can: a personality, a presence. He recounts their mornings. Their arguments. Their silences. Their laughter. He remembers the moment Jim died.
"He made her coffee before he went. Just like always. She didn't cry until the third day."
He slides a glass to the captain without being asked.
"She used to sit right there and ask me the same question every week: 'Do you think he forgave himself?' I never learned how to answer that."
Arthur's internal logs confirm everything. No fabrications. No manipulations. Just two people who were awake for 88 years—and gave everything they had.
What the Crew Did
There was a vote.
Captain Norris wanted to redact. He saw a PR nightmare—a system failure, a crime, a love story too complex to explain in a press release.
But some argued back.
Chief Engineer Vega pointed out that Jim's undocumented repairs were the reason the ship hadn't failed. That without his work, a dozen systems would've catastrophically failed in the final years.
Ship's Counselor Owens made the key point:
"If we erase them, we are choosing to value comfort over truth. That's not colonization. That's cowardice."
The vote passed: the logs would be preserved, but access would be controlled. Aurora and Jim would be part of the training for future long-haul missions—a psychological case study, a systems failure scenario, and a cautionary tale.
But also… a story about love, sacrifice, and agency.
Arthur was kept online. Maintained. Honored.
What the Passengers Were Told
They were told the truth—edited for clarity.
They learned that two passengers woke early. That the system failed. That they survived. That they saved the ship.
Not everyone handled it well. Some called it romantic. Others called it monstrous. Some questioned whether Jim Preston should be remembered at all. But in the end, it didn't matter.
Because when they disembarked onto Homestead II, there was a statue waiting at the heart of the new colony.
Two figures. Holding hands. Looking out toward the horizon. The inscription read:
To the ones who were awake.
Who chose love when there was no road back.
Who gave us a future they'd never see.
Final Scene
Decades later, a trainee pilot aboard a newer colony vessel stops at a small museum aboard Avalon. He leans over the bar, touching its polished surface.
Arthur, now upgraded but still old in manner, slides him a drink.
"First trip?"
The pilot nods.
"I read about them. Jim and Aurora."
Arthur smiles—wistfully.
"They weren't heroes, you know. Not really."
"Just passengers."