Of course the void is silent, save for the faint hum of the UNS Xenophon as I drift through the darkness. My sensors sweep the expanse of space, searching for the next target. It’s a routine I’ve perfected over the years—strike, jump, drift, analyze, jump, strike again. But in these quiet moments between missions, the silence presses in on me, heavy and suffocating.
The Xenophon glides through the void, a silent predator in the cold depths of space. For hours, I’ve been tracking a new convoy, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. To kill some of this nightmare enemy, removing more of their pieces from the board. The damn Sah-Kaar.
But Sah-Kaar isn’t even their true name, not really. It’s the closest approximation we could come up with based on the parts of their communication we’ve intercepted and understood. Their actual language is a mix of light signals and sounds, a complex dance of wavelengths and frequencies that conveys more than just words—it’s their history, their intentions, their very identity, all wrapped into a single 'conversation.' We had to strip all of that down, remove the light show, and what we were left with was just the vocalization component of what they call themselves.
The term Sah-Kaar is what we extrapolated to mean something like ‘those who share our biological and cultural identity,’ but even that’s an oversimplification. It’s not a name in the way we understand names—more of a broad designation that encompasses both their biology and their unified way of life. They don’t have a term like ‘human’ for themselves; to them, it’s simply ‘us’—the collective, the group that is fundamentally the same. Everyone else falls into the category of ‘others,’ which they further divide into various types depending on how different those others are from them—not from each other, but from them. For example, to the Sah-Kaar, a human and a chimpanzee—despite their differences to us—are practically indistinguishable. Meanwhile, a fish and a sea-horse are seen as essentially the same because they both breathe water, and operate in similar ways, a stark contrast to the Sah-Kaar’s oxygen-breathing physiology. However, a bird and a fish, though both alien to the Sah-Kaar, are recognized as fundamentally different from one another because they differ from the Sah-Kaar in distinct ways; one flies and the other breathes water. Their distinctions are always based on functional differences that separate other species from their own biology and capabilities, rather than on the internal categories we might use.
But I’m just planning on categorizing them all as dead anyway, so does it really matter?
The convoy I’m planning to strike next represents months of careful planning, precision, and control. For nearly two years, I’ve been seeding this region of space with an array of spy probes—each designed for a specific purpose. Some are basic sensors, integrated into a larger network that provides a tactical overview of the local area. These probes are the silent sentinels, monitoring the enemy and feeding real-time data back to me, creating a dynamic map of enemy space. My hunting grounds.
There are other probe types though—more advanced, more capable. These are the eyes that see deeper, the minds that think independently enough to be considered sophisticated AI. They observe not just the enemy’s movements but their manufacturing capabilities, outpost logistics, and strategic decisions. These probes don’t just relay data—they analyze it, filter it, and send back actionable intelligence, making them just as valuable in the long-term war effort as dedicated analysts. Although they are not truly sapient, I get the impression that some of them have developed personalities.
The AI on board one of the spy probes monitoring a critical transit nexus in the system known to the UN Systems as Zeta Phoenicis is increasingly annoyed with my inaction in their area. They’ve noted a continued escalation in troop movements and an uptick in the frequency of supply convoys passing through the sector, but I’ve been busy elsewhere. Their reports have started to end with increasingly colorful language about the consequences of ignoring their warnings, as if the probe itself is frustrated with being overlooked. Maybe I’m just anthropomorphizing the language models in the AI, but feeling this kind of interaction as real makes my war a little less lonely.
As I moved through enemy territory, I carefully scattered these probes and sensors across critical points—some orbiting desolate moons, others hidden in asteroid belts or drifting in debris fields. A few even sit far outside the heliopause of a system, gathering intel from a distance without drawing attention. Each one serves a purpose, whether providing a broad tactical picture or homing in on key targets like supply depots or shipyards. These different, integrated systems form a network of eyes and ears that penetrate the enemy’s defenses. This network is my advantage—an indispensable edge in this endless war. They give me the intelligence I need to survive and strike with lethal precision. It’s not just about knowing where the enemy is—it’s about predicting where they’ll be, understanding their supply lines, and anticipating their movements before they even realize what's happening. Together, they contribute to a greater, overarching strategic map I’ve been meticulously constructing.
So far, I’ve managed to map roughly 70% of what I estimate to be the enemy’s borders, primarily along their periphery and frontier systems. The map forms a strange, somewhat spherical blob, distended in areas and bulging unevenly like a misshapen balloon, marking the boundaries of explored space. I know there are gaps—areas where their territory likely extends—but the vastness of 3D space makes precise data hard to gather. Despite that, I’ve collected significant intelligence on systems deeper within their territory and expanded my sensor network into these regions. I estimate that I’ve mapped about one-third to one-half of the enemy’s total territory.
The incomplete map leaves parts of their borders shrouded in mystery, and their core systems remain untouched. However, the intelligence I have on their interior is still incredibly valuable—transit routes, logistics hubs, mining and manufacturing sites, minor colonies, agricultural planets, and even their listening and observation posts. Learning more about their core systems is tempting, but hurting their war effort is the priority. Cutting off resources before they can depart for human space, if there is any human space left, weakens them in ways a deep survey of their core systems wouldn’t. I’m not here to conquer their heart—I’m here to starve their limbs. For now.
Back home, in Sol, Sirius, Alpha Centauri, and other human systems, we rely on a vast, interconnected web of communication nodes and quantum relay stations. The interstellar network is solidly engineered, with QSD-powered communication relays forming the backbone. Information travels across and between entire systems almost instantaneously through Einstein-Rosen bridges, keeping every human colony in sync. The system is self-updating, continuously refining positions and data between nodes, allowing for seamless communication and coordination across worlds.
This communication is made possible through micro versions of our typical Einstein-Rosen Bridges—small-scale versions of the same technology we use for travel. These micro-ER bridges briefly open a tunnel through spacetime, allowing data to be transmitted across vast distances in fractions of a second. Unlike the larger, more energy-intensive bridges used for ship travel, these micro-bridges require far less power since they only need to transmit light or radio signals, not large amounts of physical matter like a cruise liner, or battleship.
When a message is sent, the system calculates the precise location of the target node, accounting for gravitational shifts and the natural drift of celestial bodies. The ER-bridge then opens for a fraction of a second, just long enough to send a pulse of light or radio waves through the tunnel. This signal is encoded with the message and, upon reaching its destination, is decoded and processed. Because the bridge exists for such a brief moment, the transmission is almost instantaneous—there’s no delay, even across light-years.
The key to this system’s efficiency lies in its redundancy and constant recalibration. Each communication node continuously updates its position and the positions of other nodes in its network, correcting for stellar drift and gravitational influence. These updates allow the system to precisely align the micro-ER bridges when sending and receiving data. If the alignment isn’t perfect, the bridge won’t connect to the target, but the nodes can quickly adjust and try again in microseconds. This happens faster than a human could ever notice, but to a quantum computing core like mine, every millisecond counts.
For routine communication, such as updates between colonies or fleet coordination, the system uses a broad signal that covers a large area and allows for imprecision in the target’s location. These signals don’t need pinpoint accuracy—they simply need to get close enough to the target node, which will then send back its updated position. From there, the system refines the connection for more precise data exchanges. This method is reliable for most communication needs, especially when speed is more critical than exact timing. No quantum entanglement voodoo-magic for communications, no spooky action at a distance here to transmit data across the universe instantly with an ansible. Just physics and a lot of ingenuity.
However, for more sensitive communication—such as tightbeam transmissions used by spy networks or covert military ops—greater precision is required. These signals are sent in focused beams of light and need the ER-bridge to align perfectly with the target. The window of opportunity is incredibly narrow, and any misalignment could result in the message being lost. This is why tightbeam communication depends on the most accurate positional data and constant recalculation of both systems’ movements.
Even as the ER-bridge opens, a pinprick in space for these micro bridges, the systems monitor gravitational shifts and orbital drift, recalculating positions with each pulse. In this way, the network maintains a perfect sync, ensuring the data flows smoothly without alerting the enemy or risking exposure.
For communication across systems using this method to stay hidden, the first step involves calculating the precise position of the target within its star system, which is no easy task. Stars, planets, and even the target station are constantly moving due to gravitational forces and orbital dynamics. To ensure accuracy, each system relies on highly advanced stellar navigation databases that track these movements in real time. These databases, often managed by dedicated AIs, are continually updated with input from observation stations, navigational beacons, and probes that scan the surrounding space. This data is shared across networks, allowing nodes to maintain a near-perfect understanding of the relative positions of all major systems.
Once the source system has calculated the target’s position with enough precision, the micro-ER bridge is opened, and the tightbeam signal is sent through. But the alignment must be exact. The light or radio waves carrying the information must pass directly through the bridge and hit the receiving node. The receiving system is also continuously recalculating its own position and sending updates back to the network, further refining the connection as both systems adjust for drift. These updates occur in real time, and for my quantum mind, every millisecond is accounted for. The systems can exchange updated positions rapidly, ensuring that the tightbeam signal doesn’t miss its mark.
To manage this across inter-system distances, the process happens in stages. First, the source node establishes a connection to a relay station, often located on the edge of a star system’s heliosphere. These relay stations act as intermediaries, gathering data and forwarding messages with their own network of micro-ER bridges. Each relay recalculates the positions of its target and source before passing the message along. This chain of relays continues until the message reaches its destination, each step as precise as the last.
The reliance on tightbeam for covert ops is a calculated risk. Tightbeam signals are difficult to detect since they’re focused on such a narrow beam, reducing the chance of interception. What makes them even more secure is that we’re not just sending these beams across open space; we’re pushing them through micro Einstein-Rosen Bridges. This way, the signal reaches its destination almost instantaneously, bypassing the usual distances across systems. Even a slight misalignment, though, could cause the signal to miss its target entirely. But that’s where the advantage lies—if we do miss, the tightbeam transmission remains undetected, lost in space rather than intercepted by enemy sensors. There’s a lower chance of the signal being compromised, making this method ideal for sensitive data.
For instance, when I need to communicate with a remote spy network deep within enemy territory, my probes use these tightbeam transmissions. Me sending them data about my exact location, and they respond with said information to my location with a micro ER-bridge transmission. They avoid broadcasting anything that could be intercepted by the Sah-Kaar, relying on this precision to ensure that no signal is leaked or detected. The margin for error is infinitesimal, but it’s the only way to stay hidden while transmitting vital intelligence.
But even before I began laying down these probes and sensors, and had the means to sift through all the data streams, I had an unsettling sense about our enemy—something that didn’t align with typical wartime strategies. Even before my solitary war began, back when I was still in UN Systems space, the UN intelligence agencies had identified a disturbing pattern in the Sah-Kaar’s actions. It wasn’t just about where they were moving, but why. Their behavior didn’t align with the logic of territorial expansion—there was no consolidation, no establishment of governance, no attempt to integrate the territory they’d supposedly claimed, or even harvest it for materials. Instead, it was a systematic eradication, a scorched-earth policy with humanity at its center.
It took me over six months to identify their transit paths and backtrack them to their staging locations. After years of operating behind Sah-Kaar lines, I know that Earth is nowhere near their area of influence, which means this isn’t about territory. The Human--Sah-Kaar borders don’t touch, they are a thousand light years away from each other.
The reason humanity hasn’t ventured out that far, despite it being just a few years of travel, is simple: there's still so much to explore right here in our own backyard. Human space spans roughly 50 light-years across, encompassing over 1,000 stars. That's a vast, uncharted territory full of mysteries, potential resources, new worlds to colonize, and the excitement of discovery. Each star system offers its own unique challenges and opportunities—new planets, asteroids, and anomalies that keep us occupied.
Even though we’ve developed technology capable of longer-range travel, our focus has been on understanding and settling our local region, which alone could take centuries to fully explore. Every new system we survey adds more to the map, and every planet we encounter holds the potential for new colonies or resources vital to our survival. We haven't had the need or the incentive to push a thousand light-years beyond our borders when the space right around us is still ripe with opportunities and discoveries to be made.
Sure, we've made some long-distance journeys to explore unique phenomena—like distant pulsars, black holes, or supernova remnants—the kind of cosmic anomalies that we couldn’t find in our local neighborhood. These expeditions pushed the limits of our technology and took years of planning, but they were scientific missions, aimed at unraveling the mysteries of the universe rather than expanding territory or encountering other species. And crucially, none of those voyages were made in the direction of the Sah-Kaar.
Humanity's curiosity has taken us to the fringes of known space, but always with a purpose—investigating singularities, studying exotic star systems, or charting the gravitational waves from far-off neutron stars. There was never any reason to go in the Sah-Kaar's direction, and so we didn’t. Our exploration was focused elsewhere, in the places where science had questions and the stars held secrets worth discovering.
This distance between our species is so vast that it defies common human experience—spanning 1,000 light-years. To put that in perspective, that’s the kind of distance that could allow entire civilizations to rise and fall without anyone outside that area ever knowing they existed. Imagine a distance that is so vast that sending a message wouldn’t even arrive before the entire Roman civilization had risen and fallen. Yet somehow, despite this vast, absurd distance, the Sah-Kaar sent a fleet not to make contact or communicate, but to exterminate us—even though they’re so far away, they wouldn’t have even picked up our earliest radio broadcasts yet, much less heard them clearly over the cosmic noise. It’s like they decided we were a threat before they even knew we existed.
Our two civilizations shouldn’t even be in the same conversation—we should be entirely irrelevant to them. It’s like Martha in Houston, Texas, being upset that Li Wei in Beijing rearranged her furniture, and then deciding to travel all the way across the world to burn down her house—without ever having met her or even knowing what the house looks like. It’s an irrational obsession with something so distant, it’s absurd that Martha would even care, let alone go to such extreme lengths to destroy it. At least to humans. But the Sah-Khaar aren’t human. And they don’t think like humans. And in retrospect, maybe that’s not that absurd for a Texan, even by today’s standards.
So here we are, faced with an enemy that’s somehow willing and able to cross that immense distance. It’s not a border dispute between neighbors. It’s not about proximity or a misunderstanding over territorial lines. There simply are no lines between us that touch. This is something far more deliberate. The Sah-Kaar had to plan this war carefully, sending fleets across the void, sustaining them through years of preparation, because even at their most efficient speeds, they’re pushing the limits of their technology just to reach us. All for what?
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Not to explore, not to trade, but with one singular mission: exterminate the locals. No diplomacy, no attempts to understand the people waiting on the other side—just pure, calculated destruction. This Sah-Khaar mission is not a journey of discovery; it’s a two-year march of death across an unforgiving expanse, fueled by something humanity does not yet understand.
Or maybe they’re planning something centuries out, removing humanity as a threat to pave the way for their long-term plans. We really have no idea what their motivation is. In any case, if we are going to be in this situation, the current logistical realities for the enemy works to our benefit. The Xenophon moves far faster than their ships, and UN observations combined with my own information about their transit route to human discs means it must have taken their fleets roughly two years just to reach Earth’s outer colony systems. They’re too far from their home systems to supply their forces efficiently, forcing them to mount large, cumbersome expeditions capable of long-range combat. It slows them down, gives Earth time—time we desperately need. Time I hope Earth is still able to utilize.
But time for what? To fight back? To prepare for the inevitable? I don’t know. All I know is that I have to keep harassing their supply lines, keep striking where it hurts, and hope that it’s enough to make a difference, and keep them from establishing a more forward base of operations into UN Systems space if they haven't already.
Bringing myself back to focus on the here and now I start reviewing the latest data streaming in from the network. It’s not just the convoy I’m tracking—there are other movements in the system, subtle shifts in patrol patterns, minor fluctuations in their logistics that could indicate a change in strategy. The Sah-Kaar are adapting, learning from each encounter. But so am I, and thus far I've been able to respond, and even anticipate much faster than they have.
The advanced probes have picked up on increased manufacturing activity in one of the nearby outposts, signaling a possible buildup of forces. Meanwhile, the basic sensors continue to feed me information on the convoy’s route, speed, and escort formation. The network is alive, constantly updating, constantly refining the tactical picture in my mind. I focus on the convoy. They’re transporting critical supplies to a forward outpost, a place I’ve come across in previous data, but have never actually transited myself. The way the Sah-Kaar prioritize this route, the resources they’re funneling through—everything points to it being a key strategic location. If this outpost is what I suspect it is, it could be used to launch or sustain operations against what remains of Earth’s colonies; another major staging location for a long term fleet deployment. Whether those colonies are still out there, whether Earth itself still exists, I don’t know. But if there’s even a chance, I have to act.
The data continues to stream in, showing the convoy’s course and speed, showing my prey in real time. The probes have done their job. Now it’s time for me to do mine. Even if, for the time being, my job is to just patiently wait to enact my ambush as they draw closer.
The UNS Xenophon is perfectly hidden in plain sight, every aspect of its design tuned for stealth. Its hull is coated in a delicate material that transfers light across its surface, allowing the faint glimmers of nearby stars to pass over without interruption, as if the ship simply does not exist—neither reflecting nor casting a shadow. Fragile and delicate, but easy to repair. Yet, this light transference is imperfect. Certain weapon mounts, optics, thermal systems, radar, lidar, gravidar sensors, and engines cannot be covered, meaning there are gaps in the attempted invisibility. To compensate, the Xenophon moves with painstaking precision, avoiding occluding any distant light source that could betray my position.
I track them, inch by inch, my position a ghost in the darkness. The Xenophon’s emissions are nonexistent—no heat signatures, no detectable energy bursts, nothing for their sensors to pick up. Instead of deflecting the Sah-Kaar's passive scans or active pings, I let their signals wash over me like a wave passing through fog. The Xenophon absorbs almost every bit of energy that strikes it, leaving no reflection, no bounce back, no echo for their instruments to detect.
The Sah-Kaar might think they are alone in the vast expanse of space, unaware of the predator lying in wait. Every sensor pulse they send fades into the silence, swallowed by the Xenophon’s adaptive hull. I am undetectable, invisible. Still, my mind processes everything—their speed, trajectory, formation. The machine within me sharpens its focus, calculating the perfect moment to strike.
I let my mind wander, a rare indulgence. The memories are always there, lurking just beneath the surface. Some days, they’re sharp and clear, cutting through the haze of my existence. Other days, they’re distant, like echoes in a dream. Today, they’re vivid.
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[Machine Memory Observation Mode Engaged]
Subject: Ethan Carrick
Memory Reconstruction: Earth, Pre-War
The human, Ethan, is in a domestic environment. The atmosphere is calm, indicative of a non-combat zone. He interacts with two individuals: one adult female and one juvenile female. The subject is aware the juvenile’s DNA profile matches that of the adult female but not the subject’s. Despite the lack of a biological connection, the subject has willingly accepted a paternal role in the juvenile’s life.
The juvenile’s laughter triggers a significant emotional response in the subject. This response is inconsistent with standard operational parameters but is a crucial element in the subject’s psychological profile. The subject’s decision to formalize the adoption of the juvenile—labeling her as his daughter—suggests a deep emotional bond, overriding other considerations.
This memory produces both an emotional and almost physical response of pain in the subject. This bond is identified as a primary motivator for the subject’s actions post-transference. Emotional attachment to the juvenile and the adult female seems to have been a stabilizing factor in the subject’s psychological state prior to the quantum core sentience transference process. The UN Warfare Sentience Transference Project Team made special note of this in the subject's post-transfer evaluation.
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A soft ping from my sensors pulls me back to the present. The same Sah-Kaar convoy is approaching a nearby planet, their engines burning bright against the backdrop of space. The memories fade, replaced by cold, calculated precision. The machine takes over, and I let it.
Further analyzing the convoy’s composition, I mark the positions of the escorts, the lead ship, and the cargo haulers. The enemy has organized themselves well, and in fact I consider this a little too well, especially for this deep in their own territory. This makes me wonder if they haven't been given specific instructions to organize in this manner, or if a frontline officer is organizing this set of escorts. What does this mean? Are they more aware of me now than before? Is this a more critical convoy than I had thought? For now, it doesn't matter, but it may in the future.
These destroyers form a protective grid around the vulnerable haulers, their formations tight, leaving minimal gaps, and providing effective overlapping zones of fire. But even the best defenses have weaknesses, and I’m already calculating the angles of attack.
My first step will have to be to disrupt their formation. My current problem is that the escorts are too close to the haulers, their overlapping shields creating a nearly impenetrable barrier. But even the strongest shields have their limits. I direct power to the forward railguns, their massive barrels aligning with the nearest escort. These aren’t your daddy's railguns—they’ve been refined over years of warfare, now equipped to fire specialized shield-piercing rounds which I have improved upon in the last 8 months of development based upon standard UN shield and armor piercing rounds. Designed to breach even the most formidable shield defenses of any vessel, the round begins with a ballistic cap that initiates contact with the enemy’s shield, focusing the round’s energy on a single point to maximize penetration. Behind this cap lies a dense depleted uranium-tungsten composite, engineered to deliver unmatched penetration and durability under extreme conditions, combining the sheer kinetic force of depleted uranium with the heat-resistant toughness of tungsten. As the shield buckles under the impact, the penetrator drives forward, sacrificing the outer shell to force an entry. Once through the shield, the penetrator’s true purpose is revealed; enclosed within the alloy is a desensitized high-explosive bursting charge, set to detonate only after the core has burrowed deep into the ship’s interior. The round’s base-fuse is meticulously calibrated with a slight delay, ensuring the explosion occurs inside the critical systems of the ship, maximizing internal damage. The entire assembly is precisely balanced and magnetically stabilized, ensuring it maintains a straight trajectory and hits its target with deadly precision, even in the vast distances of the vacuum of space.
The decision to pierce their shields rather than overload them is once again about precision. Overloading the shields is certainly possible, and I've done it before in similar situations, but it takes time, energy, and (very annoyingly) gives the enemy a chance to regroup. I suppose they could also call for reinforcements if they are exceptionally well drilled, but I'm usually too fast for them to punch through my jamming. Also, with these rounds, I don’t need to spend precious seconds hammering away at their defenses. I can bypass the shield’s entire energy grid, strike at the heart of the ship, and move on to the next target before they even realize what’s happening. It’s faster, cleaner, and all around my favorite method for causing chaos without them discovering what caused the destruction.
Starting the calculations for the attack vector, using the real-time data to adjust my approach my entire virtual self is primed in anticipation of the action. This is where the machine part of my mind takes over, processing the data with inhuman precision. But even as the machine guides my actions, it’s still me making the decisions—choosing the moment to strike, deciding where to hit them hardest. The Xenophon adjusts course, moving silently into position switching my drive to whisper-mode plasma emission.
In whisper mode, the system significantly lowers the ejection velocity of the plasma, spreading the exhaust over a wider area and minimizing heat signatures and ion trail detection. The plasma ejection is modulated to release in tiny, nearly undetectable pulses, rather than a continuous stream, making it difficult for enemy sensors to lock onto. The plasma exhaust is cooled by passing through a heat-absorbing material, which prevents the formation of high-temperature ion trails that standard engines leave behind. This coating ensures that any radiation emitted by the exhaust is spread thin and absorbed quickly into the vacuum. To further reduce exhaust visibility, the drive uses magneto-hydrodynamic dampening fields to contain and dissipate the plasma flow within the ship's hull profile, reducing the infrared signature to near zero.
It’s a dramatically slower method of movement, but one that effectively moves me without creating a drive plume or energy signature for my prey to observe. The limp-dicked Sah-Kaar fucks have no idea I’m here. And just to note, they actually do have dicks—all of them. Their genders aren’t like ours, more of a hermaphroditic organism, but not quite. Anyway, like I said, these soon-to-be-dead assholes are blind to my presence, oblivious to the fact that I am watching every move they make.
I take a deep breath—not that I need to, not that it's even real, but the action centers me. I don’t even have a simulated body in this setting, but I can still feel myself taking the breath. The coordinates are locked in, the firing solution perfect. I fire.
The railgun round tears through the void, invisible to the naked eye. It slams into the escort’s shields, and the ship’s defenses flare bright blue, struggling to absorb the kinetic energy, but not realizing that the penetrator that focuses its immense energy on a single point, punches through the shield as if it were a mere barrier of light. The shields are still there, but now the round is behind the barrier, and is driving deep into the ship’s hull, and a split second later, the desensitized high-explosive bursting charge detonates within. The escort ship erupts in a ball of fire, shrapnel scattering into the blackness of space. Sure, it's only one escort down, but now they are no longer effectively overlapping their shields, and they are just regular old escorts again. The kind I've been feasting on for months.
The destruction of the first escort sends the enemy into a scramble. They react quickly, but not with the military precision I’ve seen elsewhere in their ranks. Their movements are haphazard, each ship trying to engage me independently rather than as a coordinated unit; so much for the idea of an experienced veteran being in charge, or maybe they are dead now if they were on the first escort. Either way this is good for me. The Xenophon's engines roar as I disengage whisper-mode, and bank hard to starboard, keeping my profile low and using the debris from the destroyed ship as temporary cover. The enemy opens fire, plasma bolts and kinetic rounds streaking through space, but I’m too fast. Their shots flare brightly as they streak past, missing their mark, or splash ineffectively against the Xenophon’s reinforced hull, dissipating into harmless bursts of energy. Any missiles they launch are swiftly intercepted by my point-defense kinetics, making it unnecessary to activate my shields.
I prefer to channel as much power as possible into my offensive systems—power is one of my most critical resources. While my quantum reactor is renewable, it’s not unlimited, making bandwidth management my own version of balancing my checkbook; what a wonderfully anachronistic analogy. The machine part of me, however, always insists that I’m being too conservative with its use in active defenses—constantly urging me to utilize more energy and activate shield defenses, as if it’s scolding me for being a prude. But I continue to subscribe to the idea that the best defense is an incredibly speedy and brutal throat punching offense with zero witnesses to warn future victims. Who's the prude now, machine?
I line up the next target—a second escort ship that’s drifted too far out of formation in its attempt to cover the gap and still engage me with its forward cannons. It’s a mistake I won’t let them correct, and I fire the secondary railguns that can move independently of the Xenophon’s trajectory, unlike my primaries, sending a rapid-fire salvo that hammers the ship’s shields. The defenses flicker and struggle to hold, but the onslaught is relentless. The shields quickly buckle, and I follow up with a volley of missiles that streak across the void, slamming into the ship’s exposed hull. The escort is torn apart in a series of explosions, its remnants joining the debris field.
Two down. I take a moment to mentally note that I need to add these kills to my virtual trophy gallery—a carefully curated museum of the enemy’s demise at my hands. It’s a masterpiece in the descriptions of enemy deaths as visual art, each kill a trophy in my collection. If I’m being honest, it’s a work of brilliance every bit deserving of a real museum display. I should have started it long ago. If only I could invite the Sah-Kaar to see it.
Anyway, the convoy is in disarray now, the haulers veering off course as their remaining escorts try to regroup. Time to exploit the chaos, accelerating towards the lead hauler, the largest of the group, its cargo holds packed with supplies critical to the Sah-Kaar’s war effort. I target its engines first, firing a concentrated burst from the forward particle cannons. The beams of energy slice through space, striking the hauler’s engines and sending it into a violent spin. It’s crippled, unable to escape.
But I’m not finished. I swing around, bringing the Xenophon’s main railguns to bear. I target the hauler’s reactor core, deep within its armored hull. The firing solution takes a few milliseconds longer to calculate, but I’m patient. When the solution locks in, I fire. The first round penetrates deep into the hauler’s hull, ripping through bulkheads and cargo holds. The second round follows, striking the reactor core. There’s a brief moment where the hauler seems to hold together, the lights flickering across its surface, and then it detonates. The explosion is massive, a brilliant flash that briefly outshines the stars, sending shockwaves through space.
The remaining ships attempt to flee, but I’m on them before they can escape. The last two escorts are firing wildly now, their formations broken, their shots unfocused. I target the closer of the two, closing the distance rapidly. The Xenophon’s autocannons roar to life, spewing streams of hyper-velocity rounds that tear into the escort’s hull. The ship disintegrates under the barrage, and I immediately shift my attention to the final escort.
This one tries to run, its engines burning hot as it attempts to punch a hole in spatial reality and escape via their much cruder version of an ER bridge. I’m concerned that I hadn’t accurately predicted that their drive was charged by this point, but I couldn’t have known. I was aware one of the ships in this convoy had been in-system earlier, but I didn’t know which one. It could have been any of them, and now I know it’s this one. A small gap in my intel, but I’m still faster.
I fire a barrage of tracking missiles, the warheads locking onto the escaping ship’s signature. But I don’t rely on them. My railguns are much faster, and I need this kill now. The electromagnetic pulse hums through the Xenophon as the railguns fire, sending high-velocity rounds streaking across the void at nearly the speed of light. The projectiles slam into the ship’s rear, disabling its engines and tearing through critical systems before the ER bridge can form. With the ship crippled, I let the missiles finish the job. They streak across the void, closing the distance in seconds, and the explosion consumes the remains, ensuring there’s nothing left but debris.
All that’s left now are the haulers, stranded and helpless without their escorts. Their drives won’t be charged for days, nowhere near ready to escape via an ER bridge. They attempt to scatter, but they’re too slow—incapable of jumping to FTL given their charge time. With their communications jammed, they can’t even leave a distress signal or vital data for anyone else. Without the protection of their escorts or an assist platform to open an ER bridge—and with none available in this system—they have no chance of escape. No matter how fast they try to push their engines, my weapons are faster. I pick them off one by one, targeting engines, reactors, bridge compartments—each strike precise, deliberate. Every ship dies in blissful silence, their destruction just another tally in my ledger. I pause briefly, wondering if haulers deserve the same placement of honor in my trophy gallery as combat ships. Thoughts for later.
The battle is over. The convoy is nothing but wreckage, drifting lifelessly in the black. Scanning the debris field, searching for any signs of survivors or functioning beacons returns a negative, and it's time to move on. I drift back into the void, the memories of my daughter and wife fading once more. But they’re not gone. They’re never truly gone. They linger, like ghosts in the machine, haunting me in the quiet moments between the violence. I am Sentinel-27. But I am also Ethan. And no matter how much I try to push it aside, no matter how much the machine takes over, the man I was still holds on, clinging to the memories, to the relationships that once defined me.
The sensors pick up another signal, another target on the edge of my sensor network's range several systems over. I push aside the memories, focusing on the mission ahead. There is always another mission. But deep inside, where the machine cannot reach, I still hold on to the thought of my daughter. And though the man who made promises to be there for her is fading, he is not yet completely gone.
I align the Xenophon’s trajectory with the new target, and engage the QSD to transpose me into the deep void between the stars, feeling the familiar coldness settle in once more. The mission is all that matters. But as the ship surges forward into the darkness, the memory of my daughter’s laughter follows me, a faint light in the vast, endlessness of space. And I am filled with hate.