ADMIRAL

I finally rise after sitting in thought, maybe even in a bit of admiration, gazing out at this strange but captivating night. It’s such a stark contrast to my life aboard the Colossus... my life spent on ships and stations. It hits me that this crash, this place, this world... it’s the first real ground I’ve ever stood on. No metal walkways, no resin-coated chambers, no manufactured, artificial cities. Just solid earth.

Sure, everything is scorched and vitrified from the crash’s heat and impact, but it’s still alive. It’s a breathing land, with trees anchored deep, their roots gripping the soil. I have seen the forest unfurling endlessly across the horizon, and beyond it, the jagged majesty of the Karst Peaks rising like ancient sentinels. And that paradoxical sensation—it makes me feel more alive than ever, even as my body is worn out, starving, and dehydrated. Sleep is stalking me like a predator, waiting to drag me into its lair, deep into its dark den.

Yet here I am, staring into the shadows instead of burying my head in the VR goggles to spy on those archaic civilizations scavenging the ship’s wreckage. A small, ironic chuckle escapes me. Maybe I’m overestimating myself compared to these men and dwarves; they aren’t as primitive as I like to think. They wield energies I can’t comprehend. Could I decipher their strange runes? Build runic robots?

The thought feels absurd—absurdly intriguing. For a moment, I imagine the immortal army such a thing could create. Then I rationalize: runes wouldn’t hold much value once I’ve reestablished a proper technological arsenal. Railguns, pulse cannons, missiles—those would be far more effective. But for what purpose? I’m spiraling into pointless scenarios given my current situation and priorities.

I hurry back into the cave, almost as if to escape the oppressive shadows weighing on me. Once inside, I settle in, making myself comfortable. If I’m going to play the spectator in all this, I might as well enjoy it. I grab the VR goggles—far superior to the portable ones I used before, back in the confines of that makeshift cabin. The cables snake out from a module already integrated into the cave’s structure. When I touch the setup, I can feel faint vibrations from the power system distributing energy through the wiring of my shelter. But I quickly realize it might also be from the dozens of transport drones still excavating other parts.

These peaks will become true natural skyscrapers, hollowed out from within, reinforced structurally, but invisible from the outside. Everything is progressing quickly—so am I. I put on the headset.

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"Leia, status report? Progress in the last quarter-hour?"

"Admiral, several alerts. Multiple small groups of humans are currently venturing into the debris zone. Risk of encounters... significant despite the darkness. Initial cryo-pods examined. Current occupants: deceased. Forty-three of the two million two hundred forty thousand six hundred fifty pods have been examined."

"Forty-three? Out of over two million?!"

"The examination of the pods is time-consuming to ensure host survival if viable cases were to happen. Estimated number of crash-surviving pods is approximately ninety thousand viable pods, or about 4% of the total."

"4%... that’s still 90,000!" It’s unbelievable. How could she omit this—no, lie to me—when I first emerged?

"How long will it take to examine them all? Will the night be enough?"

"No, Admiral. Precise estimation is impossible. The dispersion is too uneven, and the random factor due observed groups is too large. Likely more than the night will be needed."

Damn it. I’d almost forgotten the mention of human groups. What are those idiots doing out here at night? Wasn’t the freaky creature that attacked them at midday enough? What now—kill them?

I lean back into the chair. I have several choices: killing them seems the most obvious, efficient, and discreet. Capturing them? They could teach me their language, their arcane, customs—but would they cooperate? Or do I ignore them, risk being discovered, and have my presence reported to their kingdom? No, that’s not an option.

I know the imperial colonization protocols recommend minimal interaction with the population, at least during the landing and awakening phase of colonists. But that problem has been obsolete from the start. The rules also advise against blind extermination; the multiple factors and connections resulting from sudden disappearances can have unforeseen ramifications.

"Leia, any recommendations on the protocol to follow?"

The speaker echoes, and instinctively, I glance upward, though the goggles block my view. Its image lingers in my mind nonetheless. The speaker is unconventional, a patchwork assembly created by the robots to compensate for the lack of intact materials. Despite its appearance, it works, though it occasionally crackles.

"The preferred strategy in your case," she begins. No, our case, I think. "...is capture and information extraction. Survival probability increases if the extraction is successful."

Extraction? She’ll handle that. I don’t want to torture other humans—or dwarves, for that matter—even if they’re peasants like these. I learned at the Admiralty Academy that, despite humanity’s inventive cruelty, the timeless persistence of an AI remains superior for breaking spirits. And I don’t want to dirty my hands—or my uniform, though recent events have already put it through the wringer. Without its resin and graphene fibers, my skin would already be exposed. It’s truly a high-quality garment. I almost caress it instinctively in appreciation before refocusing on the conversation.

"Do we have the necessary means for their capture and detention?"

"Yes."

"Perfect."

I might soon have humans here in the peaks—humans who aren’t even my own kind.