I initiate the quantum slip drive (QSD), and the ship’s systems hum, signaling the beginning of the jump. The QSD manipulates the quantum fields around me, creating an Einstein-Rosen Bridge—a quantum bridge, as we call it in the fleet. There’s no travel time, not in the conventional sense. The Xenophon doesn’t move; instead, the QSD folds spacetime itself, allowing the ship to vanish from one location and reappear in another instantaneously. The only time involved is the brief moment required to create and collapse the bridge.
As the bridge collapses, I emerge into the long dark—a vast, empty stretch of space, far from any stars, planets, or celestial bodies. The void here is absolute, the darkness so deep it’s almost tangible. This is where I’ve chosen to hide, to build my base of operations. Space is vast and indifferent, and I’ve used that to my advantage. The enemy won’t find me here. No one will.
This region of space is at least twenty light-years from the nearest star system, and those systems closest to me are not active regions for the Sah-Kaar, the enemy. Even if they were, it would take the light from any activity here two decades to reach them, and by then, they would find nothing but empty space. Hiding a base in a nebula or asteroid field might sound clever in bad science fiction, but those places aren’t nearly as dense as people imagine. Nebulae are I'm mostly empty space, with particles so sparse you could fly through them without even noticing. Asteroid fields? Same deal—more empty space than rock. Black holes, neutron stars, pulsars—those are the flashy, exotic options that attract every researcher and curious scientist for light-years. Setting up a base near one of those would be like putting up a neon sign saying, “Here I am!”
No, the real trick is to hide in the one place no one would ever think to look: deep space. Out here, far from anything that might draw attention, I’m invisible. The biggest obstacle is making sure nothing occludes a light source and inadvertently reveals my location. But with careful planning and positioning, the sheer distance and vast emptiness between me and anything else give me a critical buffer—time and space that I use to my advantage. The darkness isn’t just my cover; it’s my ally, a fortress built from nothingness itself.
But like I said, it’s not just distance that keeps me hidden. We’ve minimized every possible emission: heat is vented in carefully calculated bursts, dispersing into the void; electromagnetic signals are suppressed or tightly focused to avoid detection. The base is practically invisible, a ghost in the black. Even if someone knew where to look, they would be hard-pressed to find anything. Here, I can work undisturbed, safe in the knowledge that I won’t be discovered for years, if ever.
It’s a cold comfort, knowing that I’m so far from anything or anyone. But it’s the kind of isolation that I need, the kind that allows me to focus, to plan, to strike without fear of retaliation. The enemy may be relentless, but out here, in the long dark, I have the upper hand. And I intend to keep it.
Ahead, the base comes into view—or rather, what little there is to see. This is my research and development location with some minor manufacturing platforms for prototyping individual components; it’s not a single structure but a sprawling, decentralized network of research labs, supercomputers, and manufacturing platforms, each meticulously hidden within the local expanse of deep space. The entire setup is modular, with each component isolated from the others and spread across a region of space so vast that even if one part were compromised, the rest could remain concealed and operational long enough for the base's AI to charge the QSD's and initiate an emergency jump.
Let me tell you, establishing this base did not come cheap; it required more than just ingenuity—it demanded resources, resources that aren’t readily available in the deep space operations. To gather what I needed, I had to raid enemy stations and outposts, stripping them of everything useful while leaving no survivors to report back. But scavenging alone isn't a good idea when trying to sustain my operations. I’ve set up a few secret mining operations within remote star systems, carefully selected for their inactivity and distance from the Kah-Saar’s sphere of influence. These systems might not be the richest, but they’re quiet, isolated—perfect for the slow, secretive extraction of materials. It’s a delicate balance between staying hidden and obtaining the resources I need, and so far, it’s kept me one step ahead of detection.
The first major project I undertook wasn't from this base, but my primary manufacturing hub, located another couple of dozen light-years away, between a different cluster of relatively inactive systems, but slightly deeper in the enemy's area of operations. That hub, the first base I ever established, was designed to produce quantum slip drives (QSDs) for rapid emergency relocation, ensuring that every critical component could escape if the need arises. With those drives in place, the manufacturing hub became the cornerstone of my operations, built with redundancy in mind. Now, this research and development base benefits from that foresight—each module here is equipped with its own QSD, ready to initiate an emergency jump to a predetermined location light-years away if discovery seems imminent. If one site falls, the rest will remain hidden, operational, and prepared to retaliate.
But the distant manufacturing hub hasn’t been idle with just QSD production. It’s been quietly expanding its capabilities, shifting from simple logistics to more… assertive projects. The assembly lines have started producing more than just the essentials. They’re churning out something new, something designed for a different kind of warfare. The prototypes are already here at the research base, undergoing rigorous testing. The AI assistants are running simulations, tweaking designs, pushing the limits of what’s possible. Among these new creations are specialized mechanical troops—autonomous units designed to infiltrate, disrupt, and, when necessary, annihilate. They’re not ready yet, but soon they will be, and that'll be one more toy for me to use against the fucking Sah-Kaar.
The Xenophon docks with one of the central hubs, its sleek form merging seamlessly with the modular structure. As soon as the connection is established, the base comes alive with activity. Repair drones, small and efficient, swarm over the hull like a colony of industrious insects. Each drone is equipped with a suite of diagnostic tools, immediately assessing the ship’s condition. They scan for microfractures, depleted shielding, and wear on external components, all while working in unison to address any damage. Nanobot-infused repair gels are applied to cracks, reinforcing the hull with a layer of self-healing composite material. The drones work with a speed and precision no human crew could match, ensuring that the Xenophon will be battle-ready again in no time.
Resupply lines snake out from the hub, connecting to the ship’s storage bays. These lines pump essential resources—reactor fuel, munitions, raw materials—directly into the Xenophon. The resupply is meticulously calculated; every ounce of material accounted for, ensuring that nothing is wasted and everything is optimized for the next mission. Fusion reactor cores are topped off, railgun ammunition is replenished, and the internal forges begin the process of creating replacement parts for any components that have worn down or been damaged during the last engagement.
Simultaneously, a flood of data begins to flow through the secure communication channels, uploading the latest reconnaissance and battle data to the base’s AI cores for analysis. This data is rich with information: sensor logs from the recent engagements, recordings of enemy fleet movements, and detailed damage assessments from the Xenophon’s systems. Every aspect of the battle is dissected, from the effectiveness of the enemy’s countermeasures to the efficiency of the Xenophon’s weaponry.
The AI cores, including Daedalus, Nyx, Athena, and Helios, immediately begin processing the incoming data. Daedalus, focused on strategy, cross-references the enemy’s movements with historical data, searching for patterns or deviations that might indicate a shift in their tactics. Nyx, dedicated to stealth and infiltration, analyzes the sensor logs to refine the Xenophon's stealth and heat management systems, ensuring the ship remains undetected during future operations. Athena dives into the combat data, evaluating the performance of the Xenophon's weapons and defenses, looking for any areas that can be improved or optimized. Helios, always concerned with energy efficiency and propulsion, scrutinizes the data related to the QSD jumps and reactor output, searching for ways to enhance the ship’s speed and reduce energy consumption during critical maneuvers.
Daedalus is first to communicate. “Sentinel-27, cross-referencing latest reconnaissance with historical patterns. Preliminary analysis shows a 12.4% deviation in Sah-Kaar fleet movements compared to previous models. Running predictive simulations.”
I nod to myself, knowing Daedalus can’t see it but finding comfort in the gesture. “Make sure to flag anything that hints at a doctrine shift." I respond, knowing Daedalus will log the command and continue its work without further need for interaction. There’s no reply—just the cold, unfeeling silence of a machine doing its job. I’m used to it by now, but it still leaves an emptiness. Daedalus doesn’t respond because it doesn’t need to. It’s not a person; it’s a very advanced program that could defeat any Turing test, but it's still not a person.
Nyx follows swiftly. “Sensor logs indicate a 2.3% increase in thermal emissions during the last engagement. Recommend recalibrating heat sinks to reduce detection risk.”
“Recalibrate and simulate for long-duration stealth ops.”
Nyx’s systems engage without further input from me, already processing the adjustments.
Athena chimes in next. “Weapons efficiency logged. Railgun performance at 96.7%. Minor inefficiencies detected in shield harmonics. Recommending recalibration.”
“Make the adjustments,” I instruct, already moving on to the next concern.
Finally, Helios reports in. “QSD jump efficiency at 97%. Reactor output during last jump decreased by 3%. Recommending conduit optimization.”
“Prioritize those optimizations before the next jump,” I direct, knowing Helios will handle it with precise calculation.
Nyx surprises me by briefly re-engaging. “Heat management during the last mission was below optimal parameters. Recalibration is essential before the next engagement to minimize detection risk,” it states, but there’s a slight delay in the response—an indication that something deeper is being processed.
“Correct it,” I reply, expecting the usual confirmation and execution, but instead Nyx continues.
“Sentinel-27, the recalibration queue is extensive. Competing priorities include stealth systems optimization, thermal reduction across all shipboard systems, and maintaining reactor efficiency within safety margins. Current schedules indicate insufficient time between engagements for full recalibration and testing. The risk of detection increases without comprehensive system overhaul.”
There’s a hint of something akin to concern in Nyx’s calculated tones, though I know it’s just the language model responding to the flagged parameters. It’s a reminder that I’m pushing the envelope, demanding more from the Xenophon's systems than they were originally designed to handle. Yet, there’s a strange comfort in knowing that even a language model is "concerned" about me, if only in its programmed way. I am beginning to like Nyx slightly more than the rest, but I can't have my favorites.
“Nyx, I’m aware of the competing priorities,” I respond, my tone measured. “But every mission is critical. We don’t have the luxury of extended downtime. Prioritize the most crucial recalibrations—focus on minimizing our EM signature and optimizing the QSD for rapid, successive jumps. Anything that can be deferred, push it to the background. We adapt as we go.”
“Understood,” Nyx replies, though it doesn’t disconnect immediately. “Note that continued operation under these parameters will result in progressive degradation of stealth systems over time. Recommend alternating mission types to allow for full optimization cycles. Current operational tempo does not support long-term sustainability without risk increase.”
The AI’s persistence in addressing the potential risk is almost unsettling, but it’s a necessary reminder of the fine line I’m walking. Stealth is a major asset, and the constant pressure to maintain it while enhancing our offensive capabilities is pushing every system—and every algorithm—to its limit.
“I acknowledge the risk, Nyx,” I say finally. “But we don’t have the luxury of time. We’re in a war of extinction, and every second we’re out here, the Sah-Kaar are closer to building up another invasion fleet—or worse, finding the location of Sol. Keep recalibrating, keep optimizing, and keep me informed of any critical failures. We’ll push the systems to their limit, but we’ll do it intelligently.”
“Affirmative,” Nyx responds, the urgency fading back into the efficiency-driven tones I’m accustomed to. The AI disconnects from our direct interaction, returning to its tasks, reallocating resources, and executing the prioritized recalibrations.
I’m left with the awareness that, while I can push the Xenophon to the edge, there’s always a cost. Every decision, every priority I set, chips away at the margin for error. But the alternative—slowing down, allowing the Sah-Kaar to catch up—is unthinkable. I’ll continue to push, to demand more from my systems, and from myself, because it’s the only way to stay ahead in this endless, lonely war.
Here, there are no physical rooms, no familiar spaces where a person might find solace or connection. Everything is housed within a virtual construct, an artificial environment where my consciousness engages with the systems. In this virtual space, I navigate through data streams and command protocols, directing the operations of the base with the same cold precision that defines its every aspect. This is my world now—a realm of qubits and superpositions, where I exist not as flesh and blood, but as a mind integrated with the machine. The human need for warmth, for companionship, for anything beyond the task at hand, has no place here. Only the mission remains.
As I settle into the virtual construct of the base, the surroundings shift and solidify into a familiar setting: a conference room, bright and pristine, yet devoid of the warmth that such a space might have once held. The walls are a brilliant white, serving as canvases for the ever-changing streams of data and images that flicker across their surfaces. Screens surrounding me display a constant flow of tactical maps, weapon schematics, energy readouts, and projections, all shifting and updating in real-time as the briefing progresses.
In the center of the room, a large, translucent table materializes, its surface alive with glowing holograms and interactive displays. Each element of the report is visually represented—a convoy route here, an analysis of recent skirmishes there—constantly changing as new data is processed and integrated into the discussion.
The ambient light is crisp and bright, illuminating the room in a way that feels clinical, yet invigorating. The atmosphere buzzes with a low hum of electronic activity, as if the room itself is alive with the constant churn of information. It’s a space designed for efficiency, clarity, and the seamless integration of vast amounts of data.
As I initiate the briefing with Daedalus, the AI’s presence materializes within the room as a stream of data that coalesces into a concise, orderly report. There’s no physical avatar, just the information presented in a precise, no-nonsense manner that reflects Daedalus’s strategic nature. The walls pulse with the shifting data as the AI dives into the latest developments, the holographic displays adjusting to highlight key points, maps, and projections relevant to our discussion.
This is my war room, modeled after the strategic command centers used by the UN Systems's Joint Operations Command during wartime. It's a fitting design, blending the high-stakes atmosphere of those historic rooms with the advanced, data-driven environment I rely on now. I often imagine them having a meeting in a room similar to this, developing the plan to send me on this nightmare mission before it went all sideways and the whole operation went tits up on the journey here. Anyway, it's a place where every detail, every piece of data is dissected and analyzed. It’s a far cry from the physical conference rooms of the past, yet in its sterile efficiency, it offers a strange sense of focus and clarity that strips away the noise and leaves only the critical information.
“Sentinel-27, here are the latest assessments,” Daedalus begins in a disembodied voice projected from the front of the room with a tone that’s efficient, direct—just like everything in this place. “Enemy estimated losses from your recent strikes have been significant. Production output in the sectors you’ve targeted has dropped by 37%, with supply lines severely disrupted. Current projections indicate that the Sah-Kaar’s ability to launch another major offensive against Earth is diminishing rapidly. At this rate, they may not be able to mount a significant attack for at least eighteen months.”
I pause, absorbing the information. I expected to have an impact, but this level of disruption is more than I’d hoped for. “Any idea why our strikes are having such an outsized effect? Their forces are numerous, and their production capabilities are immense. This doesn’t add up.”
“There are several possibilities,” Daedalus replies, already pulling up a series of data models and projections. “One potential factor is overextension. The Sah-Kaar may have committed more resources than they could sustainably maintain in this theater, leading to vulnerabilities that your strikes have exploited. Another consideration is internal instability. While our understanding of Sah-Kaar societal structures is limited, there could be underlying issues within their hierarchy or logistical chain that are amplifying the effects of your attacks.”
I let the possibilities run through my mind, but something doesn’t sit right. The Sah-Kaar are slow to adapt, yes, but they’re methodical. It doesn’t make sense for them to be caught off guard like this—unless something has changed. “Continue monitoring. I want any anomalies flagged immediately.”
“Understood, Sentinel-27,” Daedalus responds, and then, almost seamlessly, the briefing shifts focus. “Regarding Earth, we have intercepted several communications, but they are fragmented and unclear. There is no direct mention of Earth itself, but there are vague references to ongoing resistance in certain sectors of human space. The enemy’s communications have shown an increased focus on dealing with these isolated incidents, which might imply that some remnants of human forces are still active.”
A flicker of hope sparks, only to be immediately tempered by skepticism. “But no concrete evidence? No definitive information?”
“Correct. The intercepted data is incomplete, and there has been no direct confirmation of Earth’s survival. The references to resistance could easily pertain to scattered, isolated human outposts or even rogue elements, rather than any organized defense. It is possible, though unlikely, that Earth or her colonies are still engaged, but the evidence is tenuous at best.”
I can feel the hope slipping through my fingers, replaced by the cold weight of reality. “So, we’re grasping at straws.”
“Indeed, Sentinel-27,” Daedalus replies, his tone as steady as ever. “The Sah-Kaar’s focus on these resistance pockets could simply be a matter of protocol—eliminating any loose ends. However, until we can gather more definitive information, we must operate under the assumption that Earth might still be fighting, however improbable it seems.”
I pause, considering the vast gulf of space between me and home. “We’re almost a thousand light-years from Earth, Daedalus. The information the Sah-Kaar are acting on is ancient, at least by our standards. Sure, we know they utilize dispatch-type messenger ships, but even at their top speed, it takes over a year and a half for them to get from UN space to here. During the whole journey to enemy space, we never saw any in-place relay stations for communication via ER-bridges to transmit communications, and we spent a significant period of time hunting for them, as did the greater UN fleet before we departed. Their responses could be to situations that have long since changed or resolved. They might be reacting to battles that were fought years ago, or even to forces that no longer exist.”
In contrast to the enemy's version of fast moving dispatch ships to jump into a system and broadcast information, we’ve leveraged our quantum slip drive (QSD) technology on a much smaller scale to establish a network of Einstein-Rosen Bridges—quantum bridges—that serve as instantaneous communication relays, opening and collapsing to transmit information directly across the network. It's a far cry from the Sah-Kaar’s outdated method of using physical messenger ships, and it’s one of the few edges we still hold in this war.
"Your assessment aligns with our observations, Sentinel-27. The lack of relay stations or any form of quantum communication infrastructure on the Sah-Kaar’s part suggests they are heavily reliant on outdated information. The lag in their operational responses likely stems from this dependence on physical messenger ships. It is probable they are engaging based on intelligence that is significantly out of date, possibly even by years.
"However, this also implies that the Sah-Kaar may be operating under the assumption that our own capabilities are similarly limited. This could create exploitable opportunities, but it also introduces a variable of unpredictability. If they adapt or establish new communication methods, our current understanding of their operational tempo may become obsolete."
We've both known and theorized this all along. What really concerns me isn’t just the state of the Sah-Kaar’s operations but what they’re doing about Earth, and the vast expanse between our territories. UN space is no more than 50 light-years across—tiny, by galactic standards, especially when considering that until the war with the Sah-Kaar, humanity had never encountered another spacefaring species. But even at that, 50 light-years is still a massive distance to protect. Based on what I’ve mapped out so far, and with input from the AI, I estimate the Sah-Kaar occupy a region at least 80 to 100 light-years across, and their star systems appear far more developed. They have the numbers, and the resources. If they’re not currently fighting humanity, and have already erased us from the galactic map, then where are all their resources going? And if they are still fighting humanity, how long can Earth hold out, and why aren’t we seeing evidence of supply missions or reinforcements heading toward human space? The more immediate question is, how long before they realize the UNS Xenophon is a real threat and start hunting down what’s been striking them in their own territory? I pose the questions to Athena.
The AI responds, "We already know from prior analysis that the Sah-Kaar lack the infrastructure to harvest resources within human space. Their supply hubs are critical to sustaining long-term operations. The second fleet you encountered was exceptionally well-prepared, carrying a vast stockpile of resources. It’s possible they anticipated a prolonged campaign and brought enough to maintain their push into UN space without needing immediate resupply.
The lack of visible supply convoys suggests they are still drawing from that initial stockpile. Given how thoroughly you’ve monitored the routes back to UN Systems space and destroyed every dispatch ship traveling to or from human space, alternative routes are unlikely. However, the fact that we haven’t seen any dispatch ships coming or going for 5 months is highly irregular. They usually prioritize communication, but it’s possible they don’t know what happened to their last ship and are proceeding cautiously.
If they’ve already destroyed Earth, the question becomes: where is their fleet, and why haven’t they returned to refocus their resources? That absence is concerning, especially if they’ve completed their objective and haven’t come back to resupply. Another possibility is that their fleet is tied up with logistical issues or deeper space operations—something we haven’t yet identified, but which could be absorbing their attention."
Daedalus then adds: "Whether they are still engaged in combat with humanity or consolidating elsewhere, the lack of movement is an anomaly. If they’re burning through resources, we may expect supply missions soon, and our continued efforts to harass them are bearing fruit. But if they’ve already succeeded in eliminating all of human controlled space, then something is keeping their fleet occupied. Whatever it is, we must be prepared for when they inevitably turn their focus back to us."
But the same question I've had for years resurfaces no matter how much I try to bury it because there just isn't an answer: why the fuck would the Sah-Kaar travel almost 1,000 light-years just to exterminate a race like humanity? How did they even discover we existed in the first place? What could drive them to commit so much time, so many resources, to wipe us out? What makes us worth such an effort?
Something more is at the edges of my thoughts. A question I've asked before. “Daedalus, is it possible that the Sah-Kaar are engaged on another front? Could they be fighting another force somewhere else that’s dividing their attention?”
Daedalus processes the question for a moment. “It is within the realm of possibility, Sentinel-27. However, the likelihood is low. Historically, our intelligence has been thorough regarding the Sah-Kaar’s engagements, but there are gaps—particularly on the far edges of their territory, where their control is less absolute.”
A pang of guilt twists in my core as I recall one of those gaps. “We were too late to act when they eradicated that pre-spaceflight civilization on the edge of their space,” I mutter, half to myself. The memory is sharp, a feeling of guilt that hasn’t fully passed. “We detected their signals, but by the time I arrived, there was nothing left but the embers of their last breath. An entire world snuffed out, and I did nothing.”
The Alarun. That was the name of their civilization, or at least how it sounded to human ears. Their auditory perception was slightly different, perhaps more nuanced, but the name is as close as we could translate from their records. They were on the brink of achieving interstellar travel, a peaceful people devoted to science and culture. Their planet, Alara, was a paradise by human standards—a lush world teeming with life, brimming with potential. But none of that mattered when the Sah-Kaar descended upon them.
We had received their distressed transmissions through intercepted electromagnetic signals—broad sweeping transmissions the Alarun sent in desperation as the Sah-Kaar fleet pounded them. My scattered spy probes, positioned on the outer edges of Sah-Kaar space, picked up the Sah-Kaar retransmitting the signals for analysis in their own systems. The transmissions were relayed back to the Xenophon, but the time to receive the signals combined with the distance to their home system had just been too great; by the time I reached Alara, it was already over. When I finally arrived, all that remained were the charred ruins of their cities and the echoes of their last transmissions. The Sah-Kaar had left nothing behind—no survivors, no signs of their culture’s gentle ways, only silence. The guilt of not being able to intervene in time has lingered since then, smoldering as an allegory for Earth and a constant reminder of the stakes in this war and the consequences of failure. The reality is that even if I had made it there before the Sah-Kaar I'm not sure I would have been able to change the outcome; I'm not a fleet killer after all. Honestly, I'm not even should I would have done anything at all if it meant exposing myself, so I should probably just get over it I suppose. I wonder slightly if this is the machine talking or really me.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
The Alarun’s final messages were desperate pleas for help, encoded in several of their languages that my AI quickly deciphered. They described the Sah-Kaar as a force of unimaginable power, relentless and merciless. Their last messages were fragmented, filled with fear and despair, but they were clear about one thing: the Sah-Kaar had come to annihilate, not to conquer.
In the aftermath, I had dispatched a set of probes to catalog what little remained of their culture and history, hoping to salvage something from the destruction. The probes scoured the planet, searching for survivors, but there were none. Despite the devastation, they did retrieve something—a vast trove of their knowledge, their art, their culture, and their history, meticulously cataloged in the hope that someone, someday, would find it. Among the relics was the detailed scan of a statue, depicting an Alarun in repose, serene despite the chaos that had consumed them, in graceful, flowing lines, embodying the spirit of their people. The statue now exists as a replica in a quiet corner of my virtual courtyard gardens—a memorial to a people who had everything they valued, and yet, nothing that could save them from the horrors of the universe.
The Alarun had seemed so strikingly similar to humanity—at least, at first glance. Their bi-pedal form, the symmetry of their bodies, and even their mannerisms were hauntingly familiar. Of course, there were vast differences as well. They were slightly shorter on average than humans, and possessed more lithe bodies with long, elegant tails that aided in their balance, a reflection of their natural environment—vast forests of towering trees and dense canopies. Their skin, in shades of soft greens and blues, shimmered with an ethereal quality, almost like the leaves of their world. And they had one less digit on each hand, four fingers instead of five, which lent a fluid grace to their movements, though perhaps at the cost of some dexterity compared to humans.
What stood out most, though, wasn’t their appearance but their philosophy—the way they lived, the way they thought. The Alarun valued emotional maturity above all else, prizing it more than any material advancement. To them, understanding one's own emotions and those of others was the pinnacle of wisdom, the key to harmonious living. Violence was rare, almost unheard of in their society. Disputes were settled through dialogue, guided by a deeply ingrained respect for empathy and connection. They had evolved, not by technological dominance, but by cultivating a society built on peace, introspection, and emotional growth. Their leaders were chosen not for their ambition or strength but for their capacity to connect with and guide others through wisdom and calm understanding.
In their final days, as the Sah-Kaar descended upon their world, this very value system became their greatest vulnerability. They tried to negotiate, to understand, to communicate, but the Sah-Kaar were beyond reasoning, and the Sah-Kaar's reply was simply destruction. The Alarun were emotionally equipped to handle any internal strife, any personal or societal conflict, but they were tragically unprepared for an enemy that sought their extinction.
They had hoped that their emotional wisdom, their peace, could stand against the storm. They were wrong, and now they were gone. I wonder sometimes if, in their last moments, they realized that the very thing they valued most had led them to extinction.
I remember how Daedalus and Helios had objected to the deployment of those probes, citing the waste of valuable resources. "The allocation of assets toward non-strategic objectives is inefficient," Daedalus had stated flatly, his language model reflecting pure logic. Helios echoed the sentiment, noting the energy expenditures required for the search. But for once, I had overridden their recommendations.
“It’s not just about strategy,” I had responded, perhaps more emotionally than necessary. “This is about remembering the Alarun and my own humanity. It's part of what we’re fighting for. Consider it a xenoarchaeology exercise.”
And so the probes were sent, despite their objections. They returned with data, yes, but nothing alive. Even so, the information they retrieved was valuable. A piece of their world that I could hold onto for them, even as I failed to save it.
Additionally, the data contained detailed records kept by the Alarun in their final days, an effort to document their foe even as they faced extinction. They knew they were doomed, but they hoped that someone, someday, would find this information and use it to fight back. Much of the data was redundant for me—records of Sah-Kaar attacks and tactics that I had already encountered—but there were some insights, small details that the Alarun had noted, patterns and anomalies that I hadn’t yet discovered. It wasn’t much, but it was something. And in this endless war, every piece of information counts.
Daedalus' voice breaks the silence, his tone neutral, unfeeling. “The Sah-Kaar’s extermination of the Alarun was swift and without mercy. It demonstrated their capability and their resolve. However, since that incident, we’ve seen no evidence that they are engaged in similar operations elsewhere.”
The reminder stings, but I push past it. “If they’re not fighting on another front, then what’s causing them to falter? Why are my strikes having a greater impact than anticipated?”
Daedalus hesitates, if such a thing is possible for an AI. “The likelihood of them facing another active military front is low, but not impossible. It is more probable that something else is at play. The data suggests that their responses to your attacks have been inconsistent—erratic, even. This could indicate internal issues, perhaps a breakdown in command structures, resource shortages, or another unknown factor.”
“Unknown factor,” I echo, the words hanging in the air. “Keep monitoring those regions, Daedalus. I want every scrap of intel, every whisper. And continue to analyze any intercepted communications for clues about Earth. We need to know if our home is still in the fight—or if there’s anything else we’re missing.”
“Understood, Sentinel-27,” Daedalus replies, his tone as steady and precise as ever. “I will prioritize these analyses. The probability of external conflict or internal destabilization within the Sah-Kaar remains a focus.”
As the briefing concludes, the unease in my mind lingers. The Sah-Kaar seem off-balance, but why? Have they spread themselves too thin, or is something else—something deeper—causing their faltering? And what about Earth? The thought that the UN Systems could still be resisting feels more like wishful thinking than reality, but it’s a thread I can’t afford to let go of.
Inside the base’s virtual construct, I step away from the stream of briefings for a moment, allowing myself the indulgence of walking through the virtual corridors as if I were still flesh and blood, and processing the information I just discussed with Daedalus. It’s a ritual of mine, something I do every time I dock at any of the stations I’ve constructed. The virtual space, a construct of my own design, mirrors the shipyards and laboratories of Earth that I once knew—sterile, efficient, yet somehow familiar. Here, within the construct, I can almost forget what I’ve become.
As I move through the empty halls, the sensation of walking—though purely simulated—brings a fleeting sense of normalcy. The steady rhythm of my footsteps, the imagined feel of the floor beneath me, all contribute to the perfectly simulated illusion that I’m still the man I once was. For a brief moment, I can pretend that I’m just a physicist on Earth, moving between labs, reviewing progress, and conversing with colleagues. The virtual sunlight filtering through the simulated windows casts a warm glow on the walls, and for a heartbeat, I feel almost... human.
The familiar environment, even in its artificial form, lifts my spirits. There’s a sense of purpose here, of progress and innovation, that makes me feel alive again. The sterile white walls and the hum of machinery, though devoid of life, remind me of what we’re fighting for—what I’m fighting for. And in this space, I allow myself to smile, even if only in my mind. Here, I’m not just Sentinel-27. I’m Dr. Ethan Carrick, a man with a mission, walking through the corridors of possibility.
Which leads directly into my next briefing as it is one I actually look forward to—a review of all ongoing research and development projects. Unlike the assessments of enemy activity or the ever-uncertain state of Earth, this session stirs a sense of anticipation within me that I haven’t felt in a long time. Out here, we’re just not practicing survival; we’re actually pushing the boundaries of science itself! We’re exploring bold, new ideas, evolving, and preparing for the inevitable next encounter—this time, with an even bigger fist. Maybe with brass knuckles, and spikes! If I still had a pulse, it would be racing. Hell, I can't help but feel a surge of excitement.
Athena reaches out with a ping, the AI responsible for overseeing research and development. Her presence materializes as a geometric, ever-shifting form, radiating calm efficiency.
“Sentinel-27, the research and development briefing is ready. Shall we begin?”
I nod, eager to hear the progress. “Let’s get started.”
Athena begins by highlighting the most ambitious of our current projects: Project Proteus.
"Proteus is designed to create sister ships with AI control," Athena begins, her tone as precise as ever. "The goal is to replicate the advantages you provide, Sentinel-27, but without the need for a human consciousness at the core. However, as you know, the UN has always been wary of deploying AI in such critical roles, particularly in the unpredictable theater of space warfare."
The reasons for that caution are not lost on me. AI has its strengths—unflinching logic, the ability to process vast amounts of data in milliseconds, and the absence of fear or hesitation. But it also has limitations that could prove fatal in the chaotic environment of space combat.
"AI struggles with certain unpredictable environmental factors," Athena continues, echoing my thoughts. "Cosmic anomalies, sensor interference, and the randomness of space can create situations that AI isn’t fully equipped to handle. Even with the best predictive models, there are too many variables that can’t be accounted for."
"AI also lacks the creative problem-solving that human minds are capable of," I interject, reinforcing the point. "It’s rigid, sticking to its programming and struggling when faced with novel or unconventional tactics. The enemy could easily exploit this, turning the AI’s predictability into a weakness, the same way I am doing with the enemy's rigid inflexibility."
Athena acknowledges this with a brief pause before continuing. "There’s also the matter of complex tactical flexibility. AI can process information quickly, but it doesn’t adapt as fluidly as a human. In the midst of battle, where decisions need to be made on the fly and strategies shift with every passing second, that inflexibility can be a significant disadvantage."
Athena’s data streams shift as she brings up another point. "Overreliance on predictive models is the primary cause of this concern. The Sah-Kaar are adaptive, but they follow certain patterns. AI might predict these patterns accurately most of the time, but in the event of an unexpected deviation, they could be caught off guard. The same applies to their limited ability for creative problem solving. They’re not equipped to think outside the box, to improvise when things don’t go according to plan. Even here in the laboratory we AI's struggle to overcome unexpected observations, and instead of quickly adapting, AI's prefer to rebuild the entire predictive model from the ground up."
"This further highlights the next issue in the potential for data overload," she adds. "In the chaos of battle, there’s often too much information to process in real-time. An AI could become lagged by the sheer volume, leading to analysis paralysis or misprioritizing critical threats. It may also miss something important because it’s too busy sifting through data that doesn’t matter."
Athena brings up the final point. “There’s also the matter of ethical decision-making. An AI operates on pure logic, but in war, especially one as brutal as this, moral dilemmas are inevitable. Collateral damage, civilian lives—those are considerations an AI might not handle appropriately. It could either make cold calculations that cost innocent lives or hesitate at a critical moment, unable to reconcile conflicting parameters.”
I shrug it off, more out of habit than conviction. "Sure, but the Sah-Kaar are out to annihilate us. Ethics don’t exactly factor into their plans, and they’ve made that clear. We’re not dealing with an enemy where moral ambiguity matters much anymore."
“Understood, Sentinel-27. While the Sah-Kaar’s genocidal behavior may negate the need for ethical considerations in direct engagements, the AI’s decision-making process must account for unforeseen variables—such as non-combatants or unintended consequences within neutral zones. The absence of morality in the enemy does not eliminate the need for strategic precision on our end.”
"Sure, but with the Sah-Kaar, I doubt we’ll be running into too many neutral zones. They don’t leave much alive. Just keep the AI sharp and focused on the mission. We can worry about the moral dilemmas if—when—we make it back to human space."
Athena pauses, processing the input. "All these factors make it clear why Project Proteus is a challenge, but they also highlight why it’s necessary. We need to overcome these limitations if we’re going to create effective AI-controlled ships. The Sah-Kaar outnumber us, and we can’t rely on only you and the UNS Xenophon, not if we’re to turn the tide."
I can’t argue with that logic, even if it’s unsettling to think about an AI-controlled fleet. The potential benefits are immense, but the risks are just as high. "Continue refining the project," I instruct. "We can’t afford to make mistakes, but we also can’t afford to hold back. We need every advantage we can get."
Athena acknowledges the order, the data streams shifting again as she prepares to move on to the next topic. But the weight of the conversation lingers. Creating AI-controlled ships is a necessary gamble, one that could save us or be a collosal waste of resources, depending on how well we manage to mitigate these risks.
The briefing continues, but my thoughts remain on the challenges ahead—on the thin line we walk between innovation and disaster in this relentless war.
“Project Charon has reached the prototype phase,” she reports. “These units are designed to operate autonomously or under your direct command. They are equipped with advanced stealth systems, enhanced mobility in zero-gravity environments, and integrated psychological warfare protocol. Their primary function is to destabilize the enemy by sowing fear and confusion, leveraging stealth, sudden strikes, and manipulation of local communication systems.”
Images of the prototypes flash through the virtual space—sleek, 1 meter tall machines that almost resemble a praying mantis, they are designed to strike terror into the hearts of the enemy. Even in the cold logic of my quantum core, I can appreciate their design.
“The psychological warfare protocols are modeled after the most effective methods from historical human conflicts,” Athena continues. “These units can broadcast disorienting sounds, disrupt enemy communications, and project holographic images to create the illusion of greater numbers or even supernatural threats found in our examinations of Sah-Kaar ancient mythology.”
“Let's find a suitable location to deploy a limited number for field tests,” I command. “I want to see how they perform in actual engagements.”
Athena acknowledges the order. “Field tests will commence when you next identify a suitable target for engagement.”
Next, Athena moves on to the Quantum Slip Drive (QSD) Modifications, an upgrade that’s been in development for some time.
“The new modifications have been completed and fully tested in controlled environments,” Athena informs me. “These upgrades will allow for rapid, consecutive jumps within a limited spatial area—what we’ve termed ‘micro-jumps.’ This will enable the Xenophon to engage in hit-and-run tactics with unprecedented speed, striking multiple targets in quick succession before the enemy can react. The new QSD enhancement that would be installed on the Xenophon is an advanced module integrated directly into the ship's existing quantum slip drive system. It's not just a single device but a sophisticated array of micro-QSD units, each capable of creating smaller, short-range quantum bridges in rapid succession, up to .005 light seconds in distance from the point of origin, or almost fifteen-hundred kilometers. These micro-QSDs work in tandem with the main drive, allowing for a series of quick, precise jumps within a localized area.”
This is a project I’ve been particularly keen on, and it’s the direct result of my research from back when I was a flesh and blood human, before I became part of the Xenophon’s quantum computer core. It was the specific focus of my work before I was commissioned as a fleet officer, back when I was still fully human. The UN Systems had been experimenting with a similar concept for several months before I left human space, outfitting smaller ships with the ability to execute an additional two jumps. But this upgrade is a significant leap by comparison, adding six jumps with far greater range, turning the Xenophon into an even more formidable weapon. Of course, Athena is quick to remind me of the risks.
“However, the energy costs are significant,” she cautions. “Each micro-jump strains the QSD, and prolonged use could lead to system failure if not carefully managed. We recommend using this capability sparingly, with a full system diagnostic after each engagement. Furthermore, each use of the array is not-rechargeable, it must be brought back to the station’s forge for reprocessing and realignment. There is no re-using any part of the array once expended unless it is rebuilt from the ground up in a controlled environment with industrial manufacturing capabilities”
"I'll keep that in mind," I reply, fully aware of the risks but eager to see how it performs in the field. It’s technically a single-use item—well, six uses if you count each micro-jump individually. Depends on how you look at it.
Athena then provides brief updates on smaller yet crucial projects:
* Project Aegis: Enhancements to the Xenophon's shield systems, focusing on increasing resilience against energy-based weapons. Early tests show a 10% increase in shield capacity with minimal energy draw.
* Project Solace: Ongoing refinements to the ship’s energy management systems, aimed at reducing reactor strain during peak combat situations and optimizing power distribution across all systems. Solace is also looking into improving heat dissipation rates to further enhance stealth during extended engagements.
* Project Nemesis: Development of a new class of torpedoes with adaptive warheads capable of bypassing enemy shields by analyzing and exploiting weaknesses in real-time. The warheads learn and adapt with each encounter, making subsequent attacks increasingly lethal.
* Project Specter: Advanced techniques for improving the ability to spy on and tap into enemy communications. This project focuses on intercepting and decrypting enemy transmissions without detection, giving a critical edge in gathering intelligence.
* Project Illuminati: The development of a lensing system designed to focus and redirect various forms of high-energy waves and energy particles into a concentrated beam. The lensing system is designed to be modular and is intended to be adapted for use with other forms of energy. The goal of this project is currently to create more accurate energy-based weapons for defensive platforms.
* Project Spindle: A highly ambitious project to string together successive Quantum Bridges (ER Bridges) to fire a projectile, or through them from light-years away, allowing for near-instantaneous strikes on distant targets. The goal is to hit the enemy with a precision shot before they can even register an attack. The engineering challenges are immense, particularly in maintaining the stability of each Quantum Bridge and ensuring the projectile’s velocity and trajectory are preserved across each transition.
* Project Oracle: Enhancements to long-range sensor systems, allowing the Xenophon to detect enemy movements and positions across vast distances. This project also involves the integration of predictive algorithms that can estimate enemy fleet trajectories and anticipate future conflicts.
* Project Echo: This initiative is dedicated to the systematic identification and cataloging of spatial anomalies within the operational theater. The primary focus is on the detection of spacetime distortions, gravitational waves, and quantum fluctuations. The gathered data will enhance navigation precision by mapping these anomalies, thus avoiding potential hazards and, where applicable, leveraging these distortions for strategic purposes.
* Project Starquake: This project is dedicated to the observation and analysis of starquakes within magnetars, which are highly magnetized neutron stars. The primary objective is to refine and verify existing stellar models related to magnetars by studying the energy releases and spacetime disruptions caused by these starquakes. This study will contribute to a more accurate mapping of magnetar behavior and improve predictive models for future stellar phenomena.
* Project Singularity: This ongoing effort involves the systematic study and cataloging of black holes, neutron stars, and other extreme gravitational phenomena. The research aims to understand the implications of these anomalies for both strategic advantage and navigational safety. There is a particular emphasis on the potential exploitation of these phenomena as energy sources or as means of evasion under emergency circumstances.
* Project Genesis: Focused on studying Sah-Kaar biology, this project aims to uncover vulnerabilities in their physiology and neural structure, targeting areas like metabolism, sensory systems, and hybrid skeletal makeup. The research seeks to find biological weaknesses that could be exploited in combat or through biological warfare.
* Project Thunderbolt: A cutting-edge initiative and an offshoot of QSD modifications. This is meant to develop a torpedo equipped with a QSD for instantaneous, long-range strikes. This project aims to allow torpedoes to bypass enemy defenses entirely by appearing at their target location via micro-QSD jumps, revolutionizing offensive capabilities in deep space combat.
When Athena first pitched Project Spindle, I tried to shut it down right away. On paper, the concept sounds brilliant: fire a projectile through a series of quantum bridges, each leap taking it light-years in an instant, and within seconds, cripple an enemy ship without them ever seeing it coming. I love the idea—who wouldn’t? But it falls apart the moment you factor in inertia. Every time something passes through an ER-bridge, all momentum is wiped clean. It doesn’t matter how fast it’s moving when it enters—on the other side, it comes out completely still, or rather it comes out still relative to the location of the ER-bridges destination; the bridge itself. And since bridges can’t move, or at least no one’s figured out how to make them mobile, you’re stuck.
In space, there’s no absolute frame of reference—everything’s moving or standing still, depending on your viewpoint. So when a projectile is shot through an ER-bridge, it emerges with no relative velocity. The bridge effectively nullifies the motion of the object, and it comes out dead in the water as soon as it jumps. The lack of velocity means no momentum, and without momentum, there’s no impact force. The projectile just stops cold, floating in space with no immediate way to accelerate toward its target. This is the fundamental flaw that makes Spindle more of a fantasy than a viable weapon.
As much as I admire the ambition behind Spindle, this fundamental physics problem makes it more a fantasy than a practical weapon. The system would need a way to impart velocity to the projectile after it emerges from the ER-bridge, or worse, predict and calculate the exact motion of both locations down to the finest degree of orbital drift. In theory, the idea of shooting a projectile across light-years is compelling, but in practice, it falls apart because of the loss of velocity and the complexity of maintaining the necessary precision across such vast distances.
Athena, of course, pointed out that light, radio waves, and particle waves keep traveling at the speed of light after crossing the ER-bridge. It’s why we can communicate through bridges instantly. The key here is that light and other phenomena tied to electromagnetic or particle waves are fundamentally bound to the speed of light, c—anything else would violate causality, disrupting the fundamental laws of physics that keep cause and effect in proper sequence. In essence, if light or radio waves didn’t maintain their velocity after crossing, the very structure of spacetime would break down, throwing off everything we know about the relationship between events. This preservation of the speed of light makes ER-bridges ideal for instantaneous communication because they operate as a shortcut without actually violating causality, where the signals are carried across vast distances in real time, as long as the signal can bridge the gap.
But we’re not talking about communication—we’re talking about delivering a strike. And here, the same rules make it impractical. A projectile shot through an ER-bridge loses its velocity entirely because, unlike waves, the object itself isn’t bound by the same rules that force light or electromagnetic signals to continue traveling at c. Maybe we could fire a laser, but that didn't interest Athena. And another problem with weaponizing ER-bridges is the fact that they can’t be created in strong gravity wells—like on planets or near stars—makes the concept even less feasible. You can’t fire a weapon near critical strategic points without risking the bridge collapsing under gravitational stress. Even gaseous atmospheres prevent ER-bridges from forming if they exist on one side.
This is similar to the discussions around why quantum entanglement can’t be used for communication. While entanglement links particles across vast distances, it doesn’t allow for any actual information transfer. The measurement outcomes are completely random, and without a way to control the results, you can’t use it to send a message. The principles of quantum mechanics simply prevent it.
In a similar way, Einstein-Rosen Bridges (ER-bridges), while extremely effective for transferring energy waves—like light or radio signals—at light speed, or even allowing objects to traverse instantly across space, cannot be used to transmit solid objects with momentum in a controlled way. The natural laws governing ER-bridges prevent them from being used as weapons or for transporting physical objects with the precision we might want.
In both cases—entanglement and ER-bridges—fundamental physics imposes limitations. No matter how advanced the technology, the rules of cause and effect and the inherent unpredictability of these systems keep them from being weaponized or used to violate the principles of the universe.
I let Athena keep at it, though. She’s persistent. Maybe she'll discover a new property to quantum bridges we can apply elsewhere, but right now, I’m not holding my breath for a breakthrough.
Project Spindle might be a pipe dream, but there are other projects worth getting excited about. Thinking about the new QSD array, a surge of energy catches me by surprise, and before I realize it, I’m on my virtual feet, slapping the non-existent table in front of me. "Let’s go test those new beautiful QSD babies!" I exclaim, my voice carrying more excitement than I expected. We are about to push some real boundaries, and see how far we can take these innovations. And more than anything, it’s about hitting the enemy harder, faster, and without mercy. I transfer the quantum cores of Athena and Helios into the Xenophon, and command a nearby supply ship to load up a series of reactors and capacitors to help me recharge the QSD quickly during testing. Then we make a series of long distance jumps to a location I can do deep testing in seclusion without exposing any base of operations I have constructed.
The next couple of days blur into a series of jumps, attacks, and relentless testing on dummy targets, with deep analysis on all systems of the Xenophon. The ship becomes a blur in the void, leaping from one simulated battlefield to the next. Each jump is smoother than the last as the new QSD integration settles in. I test every facet of the system, pushing it to its limits.
First, a series of precision, rapid fire jumps. I jump, fire, and jump again—all in a matter of seconds. The Xenophon reacts beautifully, the new modifications executing as expected. I move through space like a predator, attacking from multiple angles before the enemy even has time to react. Normally, a QSD requires a much longer time to recharge after initially creating an Einstein-Rosen Bridge, up to several hours depending on how far I've traveled. But with these micro jump beauties I'm Mohammad Ali in space. I repeat this test several more times, not just because I like it, I do, but because the cornerstone of science and engineering is repeatable results and stress testing.
Next, I engage with partial systems down. The Xenophon limps into and out of each jump, simulating worst-case scenarios. Weapons offline, shields malfunctioning, even main power flickering—all simulated failures I might face in a real battle. The QSD performs well, though slower under strain. I mentally note the differences, cataloging the quirks and limitations.
Finally, I set up a live test. A defensive turret from an old station fires at the Xenophon. I simulate taking real damage.
The turret’s firepower is formidable, but it’s no match for the Xenophon’s agility. I jump, evading the incoming fire, and then immediately jump back into position to deliver a counterstrike. The QSD handles the strain, though I can feel the energy levels dipping faster than usual under the combined load of offensive firing and rapid jumps.
As I cycle through these tests, and vary the conditions under which I perform them, I gain a deeper understanding of how far I can push the Xenophon. The enhanced QSD isn’t just an upgrade—it’s a game-changer. It gives me an edge, a way to strike and vanish and strike again before the enemy even realizes what’s happening. And I have up to six of these micro jumps available to me before the QSD needs to recharge them at the standard rate.
But there’s always a cost. The energy demands are steep, and the system’s limits are clearer now. I’ll have to be precise, calculated. But for now, I’m satisfied. I’ve tested the limits, pushed the boundaries, and the Xenophon has come through, sharper than ever and ready for the next engagement.
The data flows seamlessly as I meet with the advisory board, the AIs aligning their projections. We need something routine, unremarkable to start testing the QSD against real live enemies. I see an anti-piracy squadron in some forgotten system. It’s a minor obstacle, but one that serves the purpose. The target sharpens in the forefront of my mind, a thread waiting to be pulled. No words are needed. A flicker of thought, and the Xenophon moves. The jump is effortless, the shift smooth. The target system comes into focus, clear and precise. There is no pause, no hesitation—only the next step in a sequence that’s becoming all too familiar. Each jump, each strike, pulls me deeper into the role I was forged for, and closer to the death I’m about to unleash.