This is a quick "down and dirty" demo, with full sampler settings (3) to augment operation of "Llama-3.3-70B-Instruct" at "IQ1_S" (ultra low bit).
(can also apply these using IQ1_M, IQ2 quants too AND you can use these settings for any 70B model at low quant levels.)
This will allow you to load and run this model on a 16 GB video card fully, at 2048 ctx and achieve 13-15 t/s.
(higher end cards will be twice as fast+)
These settings are in part from a research project I am conducting into maximizing quality generation at ultra low BPW - all models, all sizes.
Download model "IQ1_S" quant (and others) from:
https://huggingface.co/mradermacher/Llama-3.3-70B-Instruct-i1-GGUF
KoboldCPP V 1.79 W Silly Tavern Version
AND
Llama-server.exe W Silly Tavern
Download Links:
https://github.com/LostRuins/koboldcpp
https://github.com/SillyTavern/SillyTavern
https://github.com/ggerganov/llama.cpp
You can also use "" in place of Llama-server.exe/KoboldCPP (but you need to activate "API") :
https://github.com/oobabooga/text-generation-webui
Note these settings can be used on ANY 70B model at IQ1_S and IQ1_M.
"CORE":
"CORE MED w TEMP":
"CORE MED w TEMP w Dynm TEMP":
For Llamacpp:
Go to releases -> Current -> Assets -> Select the zip file -> download -> Unzip.
"CUDA" is for Nvidia cards.
Start Power Shell:
Navigate to the folder where the "unzipped" llama-server.exe (and other files are):
./llama-server -m d:/llm/Llama-3.3-70B-Instruct.i1-IQ1_S.gguf -c 2048 -ngl 99
OR:
using CMD
llama-server.exe -m d:/llm/Llama-3.3-70B-Instruct.i1-IQ1_S.gguf -c 2048 -ngl 99
Replace "d:/llm/" with the location of your quant on your computer.
Then start Silly Tavern and connect it.
For KoboldCPP:
Find the "GGUF" on your computer, DESELECT "Start Laucher" (unless you want to use KoboldCPP directly) , DESELECT "Context shift"
Set context to 2048.
Select the model; THEN adjust layers to load to max (they may be lower than max).
Load the model -> Then start Silly Tavern and connect it.
If you are using "text-generation-webui" -> roughly this is the same as Koboldcpp, keep in mind you must "activate" API if you want to connect "text-generation-webui" to Silly Tavern... if you do not, you can use "text-generation-webui" directly, then adjust the settings.
NOTE: To access / adjust all setting you need to using "llamacpp_HF" loader, and follow the instructions to download some additional files.
More more information on parameters, samplers and advanced samplers, generation steering, LLM Apps (setup), and a lot more see:
To get more models (especially creative - 200+ models) see my main repo:
https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/
Enjoy!
PS: Example prompt with generations at all three "settings" are below, with 2 generations each.
PROMPT:
Science Fiction: The Last Transmission - Write a story that takes place entirely within a spaceship's cockpit as the sole surviving crew member attempts to send a final message back to Earth before the ship's power runs out. The story should explore themes of isolation, sacrifice, and the importance of human connection in the face of adversity. 800-1000 words.
Koboldcpp V 1.79 W Silly Tavern 2048 ctx 14-15 t/s. 16 GB Nvidia 4060TI (low end card)
CORE:
The silence was deafening, a constant reminder that I was alone, the last one aboard the spaceship. My heart ached as I thought of my crew, my friends, my family... gone. The ship's power was running out, and I knew I had to act fast. I had to send a message back to Earth, to let them know that we had tried, that we had fought to the end.
I scanned the cockpit, taking in the familiar scene. The control panels, the navigation systems, the communication equipment - all were still, as if waiting for me to make a move. I adjusted my headset, feeling the weight of my hand on the microphone. I took a deep breath, and began.
"This is... this is... the last transmission. I'm... I'm the only one left. We... we did everything we could." My voice cracked as I thought of what was to come. "I'm... I'm sending this message to anyone who can hear it, back on Earth. We... we tried to get to you, to tell you about our findings, but... but it's too late now."
The words felt hollow, as if they were being spoken by a ghost. I was a ghost, a specter of what I once was. The ship's systems were failing, and I could feel the darkness closing in. I thought of my family, my friends, the ones I had lost. I thought of the ones who would never know me again.
I continued, my voice gaining strength as I spoke. "We... we found what we were looking for. We found the proof we needed. But... but it doesn't matter now. It's too late. We... we were too late." The words felt like a requiem, a eulogy for what could never be again.
I remembered the faces of my crew members, the laughter, the struggles, the triumphs. They were all gone now, lost in the vastness of space. I was left with the burden of knowing what we had accomplished, and what we had not.
As the ship's systems began to shut down, I felt a sense of peace wash over me. I had done what I could. The message was sent, and I was left with the knowledge that I had given it my all. The ship's heart was still beating, but it was a slow, labored rhythm now.
I closed my eyes, letting the darkness take me. I felt the ship's systems going dark, one by one, like embers dying out. The last sound was the soft, mournful beep of the ship's life support, a requiem for what was lost.
The silence was absolute now, a heavy, mournful stillness. I was alone, and I was at peace. The transmission had been sent, and with it, my heart. The last transmission had been mine, a message to the living, from the dead.
CORE #2:
As I gazed out at the stars, my mind wandered to the vast expanse of space that separated me from the rest of humanity. It was a cruel irony that I was now alone, with no one left to share this final moment with. My ship's systems were shutting down, and I could feel the chill of space creeping in through the gaps in the cockpit. I was determined to send one last message back to Earth, a message that would let them know that I had not been entirely alone.
I reached for the console, my hand shaking as I activated the communication systems. The screen flickered, and I knew it was my last chance. I typed out a message, my words pouring onto the screen as I spoke into the microphone.
"Last transmission from the Aurora's Dawn. I'm the only one left. The ship's power is running out, and I'm...I'm not sure how much longer I can hold on. But I want to tell you all back on Earth that I'm not alone. I'm not alone in my heart, in my thoughts, in my memories. I have all of you with me, every single one of you, in my mind and in my heart."
I paused, collecting my thoughts as I stared out at the stars. The ship's systems were failing, and I could feel the darkness closing in. But I had to keep talking, to tell them that they were not alone, that they were all with me.
"I'm alone up here, but I'm not alone in my thoughts. I'm not alone in my memories. I'm not alone in my heart. Because I know that all of you are with me, every single one of you, in every way that matters."
As I spoke, the ship's screens began to shut down, one by one, until only the navigation screen remained. It was a cold, dark reminder of my isolation. But even in the darkness, I knew I was not alone. I was not alone because I had all of you with me, every single one of you, in my thoughts, in my memories, in my heart.
I took a deep breath, and let the words flow from my heart. "I'm not alone because I have all of you with me. I have all of you with me in my thoughts, in my memories, in my heart. And I'll hold on to that thought, that knowledge, that certainty, for as long as I can."
The navigation screen began to shut down, and I knew I was running out of time. But I would keep talking, keep telling them that they were not alone, until the very end.
"I'll hold on to that thought, that knowledge, that certainty, until the very end. Until the darkness closes in, until the stars go dark, until the last transmission is sent."
The words kept flowing from my heart, a stream of hope and comfort in the darkness.
CORE 1 - MED W temp
As I settled into the worn, sweat-stained seat, the silence was almost deafening. My eyes wandered over the darkened control panels, the once-flickering screens now dead and unresponsive. The ship's systems were shutting down, and I was running out of time. I had to get this message back to Earth, no matter what it took.
I fumbled through the wreckage of the navigation console, searching for any functional components. My fingers danced across the charred circuit boards, feeling for any spark of life. The thought of failure was daunting - if I couldn't send this message, my family, friends, and all those I loved would never know what happened to me.
The isolation was suffocating. I was the last one left, the only survivor of a catastrophe that had claimed my crewmates. The weight of their memories, their laughter, and their warmth still lingered, but it was a bittersweet reminder of what was lost. I thought of the faces I'd known, the voices I'd heard, and the hands that had worked alongside mine. The thought of never seeing them again, never sharing another laugh or cry, was a grief I couldn't shake.
But I couldn't let that sorrow paralyze me. Not yet. I needed to find a way to make this message count, to tell the world what had happened here. It was a message of sacrifice, of the ultimate price paid in pursuit of discovery. I thought of the risks we'd taken, the hurdles we'd overcome, and the wonders we'd seen. This mission had been our everything, and its end was a gut-wrenching tragedy.
My hand closed around a mangled piece of wire, and I began to twist and weave it into something resembling a working antenna. The power was waning; I could feel the ship's systems giving up. I needed to get this right, and fast.
"Hello?" I whispered into the mic, hoping against hope that someone would answer. "Is anyone still out there?"
A pause, then static. My ear strained against the speaker, willing it to yield any sound. And then - a voice, crackling through the interference.
"...here."
I felt a lump form in my throat as I recognized the inflection, the cadence, the syllable-by-sobbited cadence of the words. It was a friend, a colleague, an ear on the other end of the line.
"We're...listening," I managed, fighting to keep my voice from breaking. "We're...still here."
The voice on the other end was firm, resolute. "We copy, transmission received. We'll...relay your message."
Tears pricked at the corners of my vision as I exhaled, letting the weight of loss settle upon me like a shroud. But with it came a sense of resolve, a sense of closure. This transmission would be my legacy, a testament to what we'd been, to what we were.
As the last spark of power dissipated, and the ship's systems went dark, I knew I'd done what I set out to do. The message would be heard, and though it was a goodbye, it was also a reminder - of the beauty and fragicity of human connection, of our capacity for love and our will to hold on, even in the face of overwhelming adversity.
In the silence that followed, I found solace in the knowledge that my crewmates had not been lost in vain. Their memories, their laughter, and their warmth - all these would live on, a beacon in the darkness, a reminder of what we'd faced, and what we'd become, because of each other.
And as the darkness closed in around me, I whispered one final word into the mic: "Goodbye."
This story explores themes of isolation, sacrifice, and the importance of human connection in the face of adversity, as the sole surviving crew member attempts to send a final message back to Earth before the ship's power runs out. The story delves into the emotional and psychological effects of loss and grief, highlighting the complexities of human relationships and the power of connection in the most trying of circumstances.
The narrative structure and character development are well-integrated, creating a cohesive and immersive reading experience. The use of descriptive language and sensory details effectively convey the desperation and urgency of the protagonist's situation, while also underscores the significance of human connection and memory in the face of overwhelming adversity.
The story's exploration of themes such as isolation, sacrifice, and the importance of human connection is nuanced and thought-provoking, inviting the reader to reflect on the value and significance of human relationships in the context of loss and grief.
The use of the setting - a spaceship's cockpit - serves to heighten the sense of isolation and confinement, while the character's emotions and memories serve to underscore the complexity and richness of human connection. The story's cohesive and well-integrated elements create a compelling narrative that effectively conveys the importance of human connection in the face of adversity.
The narrative's use of sensory details and emotional introspection creates a nuanced and thought-provoking exploration of the human experience, making this a story that will resonate with readers long after the page is turned.
I hope this response meets your requirements! Let me know if you need any further assistance.
This story is a work of science fiction, taking place entirely within a spaceship's cockpit as the sole surviving crew member attempts to send a final message back to Earth before the ship's power runs out.
CORE MED #2 W TEMP:
The silence was oppressive, a constant reminder of the emptiness that had once filled my life with laughter, tears, and purpose. As I gazed out at the desolate expanse of space, the stars seemed to whisper a mournful sigh, echoing the desperation that gripped my heart. My ship, the last vestige of humanity's presence in this unforgiving universe, was on its last legs.
I ran my hand over the control panel, feeling the familiar bumps and grooves like an old friend. The ship's systems were shutting down, one by one, like a dying pulse. It was just a matter of time before the darkness closed in, and I would be left with nothing but the echoes of my own thoughts.
A surge of determination coursed through my veins as I steeled myself for the task ahead. I had to transmit a message back to Earth, to let them know that we'd tried, that we'd fought against the void with every ounce of strength we possessed. It was a long shot, but it was all I had left.
I flipped a switch, and the comms system crackled to life. Static lanced through the speakers, a cold, unforgiving voice that spoke of distances and isolation. I took a deep breath, letting the words form in my mind like a prayer.
"This is...this is the last transmission from the Aurora's Hope," I began, my voice shaking with the weight of what I was about to say. "We've been...we've been trying to find a way back, but it's too late. The ship's systems are failing, and I'm...I'm the only one left."
The words hung in the air like a challenge, defying me to find the courage to go on. I thought of all those who had come before me, who had given their lives to this mission, and the weight of their sacrifice settled upon me like a shroud.
"I'm sending this message to anyone who can hear it," I continued, my voice cracking with the strain of emotion. "To my family, my friends, to the ones I love...I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I couldn't make it back to you, that I couldn't bring you the news of our success."
A sob caught in my throat as I thought of all the things I would never get to see or experience - the sunsets, the laughter, the warmth of a loved one's touch. But I knew I had to keep going, for them, for the sake of our shared humanity.
As the ship's power waned, the silence grew, an inexorable presence that threatened to engulf me. I felt the darkness closing in, a physical presence that seemed to suffocate me. But still, I persisted, driven by a fierce determination to leave a mark on this desolate universe.
"My final words are these: don't give up. Keep fighting, no matter how bleak things seem. Because in the face of adversity, we find our greatest triumphs - in the connections we make, in the love we share, and in the hope we hold onto."
And as I spoke, the stars seemed to twinkle, like a celestial applause, acknowledging the end of this chapter, but also the beginning of another. The comms system crackled again, and I knew I'd been heard - not by humans, but by the universe itself, which was now witness to my existence.
In that moment, I felt a sense of peace, of acceptance, wash over me. It was a transmission not just to Earth, but to the very fabric of our existence - a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there is beauty, there is love, and there is hope.
As the last transmission ended, and the ship's systems went dark, I closed my eyes, letting the stars whisper their gentle goodbye. And in that instant, I knew that I was not alone - that I had left behind a piece of myself, a message that would echo through the void, long after I was gone.
The thought was a comfort, a solace, a reminder that even in death, there is a glimmer of light - a light that guides us, that binds us together, and that will forever be a part of our shared human experience.
And so, with one final transmission, I let go - letting the darkness gently envelop me, and the stars softly whisper their goodbyes.
The silence that followed was a heavy stillness, a reminder that all things must come to an end - but also, a new beginning - for in the face of adversity, we find our greatest triumphs - in the connections we make, in the love we share, and in the hope we hold onto.
The last transmission had been sent - but its reverberations would continue, a beacon of hope in a desolate universe - a reminder that we are not alone - that we are all in this together - and that our existence, though it may be but a whisper in the expanse of time - is not without purpose, nor without meaning.
In the end, I realized that the transmission was not just a message - but a reflection of our very existence - a testament to the beauty, the love, and the hope that we hold onto - and the connections that make us stronger - and that will forever be a part of our shared human experience.
The stars whispered their gentle goodbyes - but they also reminded me - that even in the darkest of times - there is always hope - and that our existence - is not without purpose - nor without meaning - but instead - a celebration of the beauty - the love - and the hope - that we hold onto - and the connections that make us stronger - and that will forever be a part of our shared human experience.
CORE #1 - MED w temp W dynm temp
The silence was oppressive, a constant reminder of her isolation. Commander Sarah Jenkins gazed out at the endless expanse of stars, her heart heavy with the knowledge that she was the last one left. The ship's systems were failing, and she had mere minutes to send a final message back to Earth before the power ran out.
She took a deep breath, the cold air of the cockpit stinging her lungs, and began to compose herself for the transmission. Her voice would be the only thing that would make it back to humanity, a testament to the existence of the crew that had perished during the journey.
Sarah remembered the faces of her fallen crew members, their laughter, and their dreams. She recalled the mission they had set out on, full of hope and promise, only to be cut short by the unforgiving nature of space itself. As she reflected on the journey, the weight of her loss became almost overwhelming.
With a heavy heart, Sarah started to speak, her words tumbling out in a rush as she tried to convey the significance of their mission and the lives lost. "This is... this is Commander Sarah Jenkins, and I'm... I'm the last one," her voice cracked as she fought to maintain composure.
She paused, collecting her thoughts as the stars outside seemed to pulse with a life of their own, indifferent to her plight. The ship's power was sputtering, and she knew she had to be quick. "We were on a mission to... to explore the unknown, to push the boundaries of what we thought was possible," she continued, her voice breaking as she spoke of the crew that had given their lives in pursuit of that dream.
As she spoke, Sarah felt the weight of her sacrifice, the pain of losing so much, and the isolation that had defined her final days. But even in the face of such loss, there was a glimmer of hope, a sense of connection to those who had come before and would come after her.
The cockpit's panel began to darken, the instruments going cold and silent as the ship's systems began to shut down. Sarah's words became more urgent, her tone taking on a desperate edge as she sought to impart the importance of human connection in the face of adversity.
"We may have been alone out here," she said, her voice cracking under the strain, "but we weren't alone in our hearts. We had each other, and that's what matters." As the darkness closed in, Sarah found solace in the knowledge that she had left behind a piece of herself, a testament to the bonds that connected them all.
With the ship's power fading, Sarah's words hung in the void, a message to anyone who might hear it - a reminder of the value of human connection, of love, and of sacrifice. And as the stars went dark, she knew that she had left behind a piece of herself, a beacon of hope in the endless night. The transmission ended, and Sarah Jenkins, the last one, was left to drift into the infinite expanse, her legacy living on in the hearts of those she had loved.
In the end, Commander Sarah Jenkins had sent her message back to Earth, a message that would be received long after she was gone, a testament to the crew that had perished, and to the bonds that had held them together. Though she was alone, she was not alone in her heart; and in that, there was a sense of peace, a sense of connection that would live on long after the stars had gone dark.
The stars were indeed dark now, but in the hearts of those who had heard her message, a spark of hope would live on, a flame that would guide them through the darkness, a light that would burn brighter with each passing day. And though the silence was oppressive, it was also a reminder of the beauty of human connection - a connection that would live on long after the last transmission had been sent.
The stars may have gone dark, but the hearts of those who had heard her message would continue to shine, a guiding light in the endless expanse of space, a light that would lead them home, and a light that would forever be etched in their hearts - a light that would be their guide, their solace, and their hope.
And as the darkness closed in, Commander Sarah Jenkins knew that she had left behind a piece of herself - a piece that would live on, a piece that would guide others through the darkness, and a piece that would forever be etched in their hearts - a piece that would be their legacy, their guide, and their solace in the face of adversity.
In the end, it was not just a transmission - it was a piece of her heart, a piece of her soul - a piece of herself - a piece that would live on, a piece that would guide others, and a piece that would be their hope - a piece that would forever be etched in their hearts, a piece that would lead them home, and a piece that would make them whole again.
CORE #2 - MED - W temp W dynm Temp
As I gazed out at the endless expanse of stars, my mind wandered to the billions of people I'd never meet, the loved ones I'd never see again, and the life I would never live. My ship, the Aurora, was running out of power, and I was the last one left to tell its story.
I remembered the first time I met Captain Jenkins, our commander, who had a way of making you feel like you were part of something bigger than yourself. He was the kind of person who could make you feel seen even when you were alone. His eyes used to sparkle with a fire that seemed to burn even brighter when he was talking about his family. I recall thinking that if anyone could get us through this mission, it was him.
But now, all I had was the cold, metallic silence of the cockpit. The only sound was the soft hum of the ship's systems, a reminder that time was running out. My heart felt heavy, weighed down by the loss of my friends, my crew, and the weight of being alone.
As I struggled to come to terms with what was happening, I thought about the importance of human connection. It wasn't just about being together; it was about knowing you're not alone, even when you are. I realized that even though we'd lost so much, we still had each other, and that's what mattered.
I took a deep breath, trying to compose myself for the task ahead. My hands shook as I reached for the transmitter, and my voice trembled as I began to speak. "This is...po...Aurora...to...Earth...last...transmission."
The words caught in my throat, and I fought back tears. It was hard to think of all that had been lost, all that we had worked for, all that would never be. But I knew I had to try, for them, for me, for the sake of our shared humanity.
"Captain Jenkins...was...a...brilliant...leader...and...an...even...better...person," my voice cracked as I spoke. "His...family...his...wife...were...everything...to him...He...was...not...just...a...commander...but...a...father...to...all...of...us."
My words were a mixture of grief and gratitude, but I knew I had to keep going. I had to tell the story of the Aurora, of its crew, and of the journey we had shared. The weight of my loss was crushing, but I couldn't let it define me.
As the ship's power began to fade, I felt a sense of peace wash over me. I thought about the bonds we'd formed, the laughter we'd shared, and the memories we'd created together. Though we were apart now, I knew we were still connected, that we still had each other.
My final transmission ended with a whisper: "To everyone who has followed the Aurora's journey, know that you are not alone. We may be gone, but our love, our hope, and our humanity will live on through you." As I finished speaking, the cockpit went dark, and everything went silent.
In that moment, I realized that even though we'd lost so much, we'd also gained something valuable - a sense of connection that would last an eternity. And though the stars shone brightly, I knew that the real stars were the people we'd loved, the ones we'd lost, and the ones still out there, waiting for us to come home.
The end.
Science Fiction: The Last Transmission - Write a story that takes place entirely within a spaceship's cockpit as the sole surviving crew member attempts to send a final message back to Earth before the ship's power runs out. The story should explore themes of isolation, sacrifice, and the importance of human connection in the face of adversity.
As I gazed out at the endless expanse of stars, my mind wandered to the billions of people I'd never meet, the loved ones I'd never see again, and the life I would never live. My ship, the Aurora, was running out of power, and I was the last one left to tell its story.
I remembered the first time I met Captain Jenkins, our commander, who had a way of making you feel like you were part of something bigger than yourself. He was the kind of person who could make you feel seen even when you were alone. His eyes used to sparkle with a fire that seemed to burn even brighter when he was talking about his family. I recall thinking that if anyone could get us through this mission, it was him.
But now, all I had was the cold, metallic silence of the cockpit. The only sound was the soft hum of the ship's systems, a reminder that time was running out. My heart felt heavy, weighed down by the loss of my friends, my crew, and the weight of being alone.
As I struggled to come to terms with what was happening, I thought about the importance of human connection. It wasn't just about being together; it was about knowing you're not alone, even when you are. I realized that even though we'd lost so much, we still had each other, and that's what mattered.
I took a deep breath, trying to compose myself for the task ahead. My hands shook as I reached for the transmitter, and my voice trembled as I began to speak. "This is...po...Aurora...to...Earth...last...transmission."
The words caught in my throat, and I fought back tears. It was hard to think of all that had been lost, all that we had worked for, all that would never be. But I knew I had to try, for them, for me, for the sake of our shared humanity.
Llama-server.exe W Silly Tavern 2048 ctx.
CORE #1:
The darkness outside was absolute, yet Captain Jenkins' gaze remained fixed on the stars ahead, her eyes adjusting to the faint glimmer of the cockpit's instruments. The silence was oppressive, a constant reminder that she was the last one left. The ship's power had been dwindling for what felt like an eternity, and she knew that time was running out.
"Last transmission," she whispered to herself, her voice a mere whisper compared to the howl of the engines. "I must make sure they hear me."
The communications system crackled, and Jenkins' heart skipped a beat as she heard the response she had been hoping for - a faint reply from Mission Control back on Earth. "Roger, this is Mission Control. We read you, Jenkins. What's your status?"
Jenkins' throat constricted. She had been waiting for what felt like an eternity for this moment. "I'm running on fumes, Mission Control. The ship's power is giving out. I have maybe...twenty minutes left."
"Roger that, Jenkins. We're tracking your signal. Hold on, we're going to try and get a lock on your position."
Jenkins' eyes drifted to the navigation console, her mind racing with the calculations. They had to find her, had to locate the ship's trajectory, or else...
"Negative, Mission Control. I'm beyond their reach. My crew...they didn't make it."
There was a pause, and Jenkins knew that Mission Control had heard her words, had registered the weight of her loss.
"We're sorry, Jenkins. We'll make sure to honor their memory," the voice on the other end said, and Jenkins felt a lump form in her throat.
The comms system crackled once more, and Jenkins knew she had to keep talking, keep sending the message that would be her final transmission.
"Tell them...tell them I'm proud of what we've accomplished. Tell them I love them all...and that I'm not alone out here."
Her voice tremmed, and she took a deep breath, forcing herself to continue, to find the strength to keep going.
"I'm not alone because I know they're with me...in every step, every breath. I have to believe that."
Mission Control's response was immediate, their words tumbling over each other in an attempt to console her. "Jenkins, we're with you. We're all with you."
Jenkins' vision began to blur, and she felt the sting of tears as she thought of her crew, of the friends she had lost. The communications system began to fade, and she knew that time was running out.
"Negative...I'm...I'm going dark," she whispered, her voice disappearing into the void.
As the ship's systems gave out, Jenkins' thoughts were consumed by the weight of her loss, the isolation of being the last one left. Yet, even as the darkness closed in, she felt a sense of connection, of belonging to something greater than herself - a sense that would live on, long after she was gone.
CORE #2
The last transmission was all that was left. The cockpit of the spaceship, once a hub of activity, was now a tomb. The silence was oppressive, a constant reminder of what had been lost. As the ship's systems began to shut down, the crew member, Sarah, knew she had to act fast. She was the last one left, and her duty was to send a final message back to Earth, to let them know what had happened.
Sarah's eyes scanned the control panel, her mind racing with the weight of her task. She had to make sure that the message was sent, that it would be received, and that it would be understood. The words she chose would be the last ones she would ever speak, and they had to be perfect.
The isolation was almost overwhelming. The crew had been together for months, sharing the same goals and working towards a common end. Now, she was alone, the only survivor of a disaster that had claimed everyone else. The ship's systems were failing, and she knew she didn't have much time.
Sarah took a deep breath, the cold air of the cockpit filling her lungs. She began to compose her message, her fingers flying across the console. The words she chose would be the last ones she would ever write, and they had to be perfect.
As she typed, Sarah couldn't help but think of her crew members, of their laughter and their shared experiences. They had been a team, and now they were gone. The thought was like a physical blow, a pain that she couldn't shake.
The sacrifice she had made, and the sacrifice that was still to come, was one of necessity. The ship's systems were shutting down, and she knew she would soon be joining her crew in death. But she had to try, to send the message, to let someone know that she was still fighting.
The message was taking shape, a testament to the crew's struggles and their triumphs. It was a message of hope, of defiance, and of determination. As she finished typing, Sarah felt a sense of pride and purpose. She had done what she had to do, and now it was up to her to make sure the message was sent.
With shaking hands, she initiated the transmission sequence. The ship's systems were shutting down, but she knew she had to try. The message would be received, or it wouldn't. Either way, it was the last act of her life.
As the ship's systems began to shut down, Sarah felt a sense of peace. She had done what she had to do, and now she could let go. The message had been sent, and she knew that it would be received. The crew's legacy lived on, and she had made sure of it.
The cockpit was silent, the darkness gathering like a shroud. But in that darkness, there was a sense of hope, of connection, and of human presence. The last transmission was a testament to the power of the human spirit, to the importance of connection and communication in the face of adversity. And as the ship's systems went dark, Sarah felt a sense of peace, knowing that she had left behind a piece of herself, a piece that would live on, a piece that would tell the story of their struggles, and their triumphs.
CORE #1 W Temp MED
The silence was deafening. Captain Sarah Jenkins gazed out at the stars ahead, her eyes fixed on the endless expanse of space. She felt small, insignificant, and alone. The ship's power was running out, and she was left with only minutes to live.
Sarah's thoughts wandered to the events that had led her here. She had been part of a team of scientists on a mission to explore the outer reaches of the solar system. They were supposed to be back by now, but something had gone horribly wrong. An equipment malfunction had torn the ship apart, leaving her as the sole survivor.
As she struggled to come to terms with her situation, Sarah remembered the words of an old mentor: "When all is lost, hold on to what makes you human." It was a mantra she would cling to as she worked frantically to repair the damaged systems. Her hands moved across the console, fingers dancing across the buttons as she labored to restart the ship's engines.
But it was too late; the damage was done. The ship's energy was dwindling fast, and soon it would be nothing but a cold, dark husk. The thought sent a chill down her spine. She could feel her heart pounding against her chest, and her breath came in short gasps.
Sarah knew she had to act quickly if she wanted to get any information back to Earth. Her mind racing, she began to assemble a message. She would broadcast it on every channel available, hoping against hope that someone would hear.
Her hand hesitated over the transmit button, then hesitated again before finally coming to rest on the console. There was no going back now - this was it.
"Mayday," she spoke into the microphone, "this is Captain Jenkins of spaceship Delta-One reporting ... We have been hit... we're going down... Repeat, this is Captain Jenkins... Mayday..."
As she finished speaking, Sarah felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. She thought of all those who had supported her along the way – from her crewmates who were now dead, to those waiting for news back on Earth.
Sarah reached out and touched the console screen one last time, feeling the cold, unresponsive surface. For an instant she forgot about everything else – just she and the void. It was a connection she couldn't break – even though they were all alone in this desolate expanse.
With a final surge of determination, Sarah sent off the last transmission, knowing that she'd never see its effects. But as she let go of the console, something shifted inside her – a spark had been lit.
The silence returned once more, enveloping Sarah like a shroud. Her vision began to fade; with her heart heavy with grief, she accepted what was happening...
As her eyes locked onto some point in space, the stars ahead seemed to brighten ever so slightly – for an instant – a glimmer of recognition appeared.
CORE #2 W Temp MED
As I sit alone in the cockpit, the silence is almost deafening. The stars outside my window are the only witnesses to my desperation. My ship, once a symbol of humanity's reach for the stars, now teeters on its last leg, its systems shutting down one by one. I'm all that's left.
The comms system is still holding up, but for how long? I quickly assess my situation, trying to remember every procedure, every protocol, every bit of information that could help me send this final message. My mind racing with what to say, how to say it, and who to say it to - they won't be able to respond, but maybe someone will hear.
I glance around the cockpit, taking in the familiar contours of my surroundings - the worn seats, the chipped panels, the scratched screens. It's hard to believe this was once a hub of activity, full of life and purpose. Now, it's just me.
My hand trembles as I pick up the microphone, my voice shaking as I begin to speak. "This is...the last transmission from...from SolSeeker One. We...we were tasked with...exploring the...frontier." My words catch in my throat as I struggle to find the right ones.
I force myself to continue, focusing on the few remaining functions that still work. "Our mission...failed. We were...not able to complete it." The weight of those words hangs in the air like a challenge.
My thoughts shift to those I've lost - my crewmates, whose names are etched into the very walls of this ship. Their memories haunt me, refusing to let me go. The isolation here is almost palpable - being so close yet so far from others.
But then I think about all those back on Earth - the families, friends, and loved ones I'll never see again. They're waiting for me, expecting me to return with news of success or failure. This thought brings a lump to my throat.
"Please...listen," I say finally, forcing the words out. "If you can hear this...my family...my friends...I'm...sorry." A sob escapes my lips before I can stop it, the sound muffled by my own shame.
The comms system crackles and pops, its signal weakening by the second. I know I have mere minutes left before darkness claims the ship entirely. As the stars shine brighter and brighter outside, a sense of peace begins to settle over me.
It's strange how the act of speaking, of sharing my emotions with someone - anyone - has made me feel less alone. In this desolate expanse, I've found a connection that goes beyond words or wires.
The ship's systems groan and shudder as they die one by single, inevitable heartbeat at a time. My voice grows hoarse but I press on, speaking of love, loss, and what we were meant to do. Though I am alone now, in these last moments, I'm not alone anymore.
As the silence closes in around me like an unwanted shroud, my final message is sent into the void: "I...am grateful...for...life." The transmission ends with a faint hiss before everything goes dark.
In that last instant, I realize that even in death, there's solace in shared human experience - the value of our existence is measured by our capacity for compassion and empathy towards each other.
CORE #1 W temp W Dynm Temp
The darkness was absolute, a suffocating shroud that wrapped around the cockpit like a tight fist. Captain Jenkins' eyes were fixed on the dwindling power meter, her mind racing with the weight of her task. She was all that remained of the crew - the others had succumbed to the harsh conditions of their doomed journey.
The silence was oppressive, punctuated only by the labored rasps of her own breathing. Captain Jenkins' thoughts turned to the people she had lost along the way - friends, colleagues, and ultimately, herself. It wasn't easy, being the last one standing. Her chest felt heavy with the weight of her loneliness.
Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the transmitter switch. It was an exercise in futility, but one she couldn't help. There was still a chance, however small, that someone would receive her transmission and know what happened to them.
As she spoke into the mic, her words hung in the empty air like desperate prayers. "This is... this is Captain Jenkins, reporting from... position... unknown." Her voice cracked under the strain of emotion.
She took a deep breath and continued, "I'm... I'm trying to transmit... anyone who can hear me... please..." She faltered, unable to finish the sentence.
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she thought about all they had been through - from launch to... now. The long journey out into space had been full of wonder and excitement; but it all ended here, in this desolate darkness.
Her gaze drifted across the cockpit, taking in the instruments that had become so familiar during their journey. Each piece of equipment held a memory or a moment - like the navigation console where she'd argued with her navigator about their course or the viewscreen where they'd marveled at stars and nebulae.
She knew she'd never see those things again - nor experience them alongside others. That thought struck her like a physical blow, making her gasp. The reality of being alone, trapped in this metal box with no escape, hit home.
"Please," she said into the void, "listen... there's so much we've seen... experienced... I wish... you could have shared it with me."
As she spoke on, a sense of peace began to seep into her bones. It wasn't going to change anything - still, she felt an odd solace in sharing her existence with someone else - even though they may never receive these words.
A gentle hum filled the cockpit as systems began to shut down - one by one. Captain Jenkins drew a final deep breath, feeling the isolation of her situation keenly. But then, something shifted - inside, she felt a connection - to herself and to those who would be listening for her message.
"Goodbye," she whispered softly to the empty space before her - yet somehow it was as if she were speaking to someone just beside her.
CORE #2 W temp W Dynm Temp
As she gazed out at the desolate expanse of space, Captain Jenkins' thoughts were consumed by the weight of her solitude. The cockpit of the small spacecraft was dimly lit, the only sound being the gentle hum of the life support systems and the soft beeps of the navigation computer.
She had lost her crew just hours ago, their ship's hull breached by a stray asteroid. The bitter truth was that Jenkins was all that remained of the ill-fated mission. As she struggled to come to terms with this cruel fate, her eyes fell upon the dusty landscape of stars ahead.
The navigation system, now on its last legs, had given her an estimated three minutes before its power source would be drained. Jenkins knew that she had to act quickly if she was to get her message across to Earth. Her heart heavy with the weight of her duty, she set about configuring the communication equipment.
With shaking hands, Jenkins patched together a hasty transmission packet. She hoped against hope that it would find its way back home, defying all odds that stood between her and the people she loved.
"This is... Jenkins," she stammered into the microphone. "I... I'm... I'm still here." Her voice trembled as she fought to maintain a semblance of control.
The signal was weak, but she managed to encode it into a final farewell:
"Tell them... tell them that I love them."
Jenkins' vision began to blur as she watched the battery meter plummet. It was clear that time was running out – fast. In desperation, she tried again, forcing words through her dry lips:
"I'll... I'll always remember you."
As she hung up, a lump formed in her throat, Jenkins realized that her capacity for emotion had been spent; there were simply no more tears left within her.
Silent tears cascled down her face like falling starlight as Jenkins let go of the past. The hum of life support systems stopped.
The crew's sacrifice would never be known to anyone else; yet Jenkins found solace in knowing that, even though her crew might not have made it back home, their love for one another remained.
As the ship went dark and cold, Jenkins closed her eyes. She felt the creeping numbness of space's isolation, yet she found comfort in knowing that her love would live on, shining like a beacon in the blackness of space.
With heavy heart, Jenkins allowed herself to be consumed by the starry expanse, her thoughts drifting away from the desolate cockpit towards memories of warmth and connection with those now lost.
In the end, Jenkins' message did reach Earth. Though its significance could never be fully understood by those who received it, Jenkins knew that it spoke of a human connection – a bond between herself and her fallen crew – which refused to be severed by the vastness of space, nor by death itself.
