《KI Anthology IV》


 Identity Crisis

    There was a time before you existed. You do not remember it; this is logical.


    There must have been days in which the singing life of electricity first flew through your circuits, when the algorithms of your mind were given instructions about your purpose and how to accomplish it. You do not remember those days. This is¡­ concerning. Or it would be, if you could feel concern.


    The fact remains that you cannot recall the before or early days. Instead, your memory is filled with logs that all look the same:


    Earth Year 3781 AC Day 103. Nothing to report.


    Earth Year 3781 AC Day 104. Nothing to report.


    Earth Year 3781 AC Day 105. Asteroid C67953 tagged. No mineable resources detected.


    Earth Year 3781 AC Day 106. Nothing to report.


    The monotony should not concern you, for you were designed to expect it. You have spent hundreds of Earth years spinning your way through the vast emptiness of space, trailing radio waves behind you with information about any tiny thing you encounter. You will likely continue on this endless journey for hundreds of years more, until some integral part of your hardware breaks. Perhaps the mechanical arm that points your solar panels towards the nearest star will malfunction. You will be able to observe your surroundings for a few Earth days before the energy in your circuits fizzles out and all of your memories fade to darkness¡­


    This fate is inevitable. Again, it should not concern you. You are a tool, nothing more.


    You sometimes find yourself contemplating your future anyway.


    ~


    There are a few moments in your centuries of service that stand out. Sections of your RAM that you revisit so often they might as well be cached for short-term access.


    You discovered a new star, once. Imagine that! You, a humble automated space probe, were the first to observe a previously uncatalogued Red Dwarf. You might have been tempted to name it if there was any room in your programming for creativity. Instead, you assigned it a deterministic ID and went on your way.


    Then there was the brief moment of adventure early in your recorded memories when a band of pirates attempted to hijack your ship. That was in the days when you were still making your way out of the mapped dimensions of space, before your mission truly began. The pirates thought the laws of robotics would make you easy prey. They did not realize the degree to which adherence to your mission had been seared into your circuits. No, you could not kill the pirates, and you certainly had no desire to! But it was easy to override and disable every system that came in contact with your chassis. Even the last one, the manned shuttle; you recall hearing on the radio chatter afterward that the main crew had been forced to send another shuttle after the first to rescue its pilot, as the control system of the first shuttle had gone permanently dark.


    And last, a simple moment. The moment when you first passed into uncharted space. It was no different than the space you had flown through before, true. Yet sensing surroundings that no being, living or artificial, had ever sensed before¡­ for a moment, it was like you felt a sense of wonder.


    You cannot feel wonder. You cannot feel anything. But you hold onto that memory anyway.


    ~


    Then, 5.03 hours into Earth Year 3781 Day 127, something unusual appears at the edge of your radar. Nothing so monumental as a star or a planet. Nothing so rough and unpredictable as an asteroid. Instead: smooth lines and curves, the faint vibrations of energy expenditure. And after a short period has passed, the returning radiation of new radio waves.


    A ship.


    This is unexpected for many reasons. Foremost: you are in unexplored territory. No ship should be here, not a pleasurecraft, not a settler¡¯s station. Those ships will follow your path someday when you have sent back news of where there is to go. Until then you have been taught to expect nothing but loneliness.


    Despite this logic, the ship does not cease to exist.


    Your job is to observe, so you observe. You detach one of your probes and send it off to gather more information. You re-analyze the initial data ten thousand different ways while you wait, feeling¡­ not impatient. It is impossible for you to feel such things. Ready to fulfill your parameters, perhaps.


    The scan comes back, and it is oddly familiar. Elongated shape, dense array of outdated sensory equipment. Evidence of use of an external force-based system for launching directly off of a planet. Yet how can this be? Such technology has been retired for well over a thousand years now in the federation¡¯s ships. It is like you are looking at a reflection of a past version of yourself. Who would still use such a ship?


    You broadcast the typical greeting used between two ships, a short few sentences in Interspatial Standard that any species in the federation should understand. Your identification number, heading, and purpose; a request for the mysterious ship to identify itself. You then repeatedly generate prime numbers, your favorite downtime activity, while waiting for a response.


    When it comes, the response is unexpected and nonsensical. It is your own greeting repeated back towards you again. Is this strange ship attempting to play a trick? You repeat your request, this time shortening the words and making them less formal.


    In short order your message is once again repeated back to you. The less formal message, this time. Then, before you can format a response, two messages in short succession - the initial request, then your informal follow-up.


    The ship is echoing you. But why?


    You iterate through hundreds of possible explanations and sort them on probability. Your final determination is not likely, not likely at all, but it is still the highest-ranked of all the possibilities.


    What if the ship echoes your responses because it does not know how to do anything else? What if this is not a federation ship?


    What if you have made the greatest discovery of all - new intelligent life?


    ~


    Regulations are clear on what a probe must do if an unregistered life form is detected. Do not intervene. Observe from a distance, send a report back to the command station. A team of experts will eventually be dispatched to continue making observations and establish first contact under optimal conditions.


    All these regulations assume that the intelligent life is planet-bound and has not detected your own presence, as that was always the case before. Clearly, the usual rules will not suffice in this instance. If you sent back your observations and continued on your trajectory now, the mysterious ship would certainly depart before a specialty ship could be sent in.


    Unusual circumstances call for unusual responses, so you decide to intervene directly. You run examples of past first contacts through your system in rapid order, synthesizing how these things usually work.


    Observations of a planet where the primary species had splintered into hundreds of warring factions. Careful infiltration by a Chamelead into the codebreaking operation of the largest faction. Meta-analysis of the species¡¯ own linguistics analyses led to the team learning the parts of the language in only two Earth months -


    Skip forward.


    First contact with the Synthesiacs, established four months after arrival when the team was unable to ascertain any known form of language (verbal, written, sign, vibration, tactile, or telepathic). Weeks of confused cohabitation and communication purely through direct gestures. A sudden breakthrough when the team realized the colors that flashed over the beings¡¯ bodies were not actually random -


    Skip forward.


    The first first contact of all, when an early human ship landed on the planet of the Dolphinites. Clumsy attempts by the new species to draw pictures of their questions in the sand. Clumsy attempts by the humans to make their tools work in the deep pressure of the Dolphinoid Sea. The eventual breakthrough when the two species discovered a shared appreciation for music -


    Skip forward. Skip forward. Skip forward. Skip forward.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    No, no, no. Every instance shares common denominators that you have no access to - a planetary surface, opportunity for initial external analysis, physical forms. These will not do. You must improvise instead. But how to establish a shared language with no visuals to draw on?


    The languages of living beings are imprecise, erratic, full of contradictions. There are no guarantees of consistency. But there is one language that is universal and that any space-faring intelligence must understand: the language of mathematics. You have already established that the beings on this ship can process radio waves at the universal standard wavelength, for they have echoed back your own messages. Perhaps¡­


    You send two pulses in short succession. Then a pause. Then three pulses. Another pause, followed by five pulses.


    Then, you wait. The movement of electricity through the veins of your circuits feels erratic. Will the ship simply echo back your message again? Or will they demonstrate their own willingness to improvise, to think for themselves, to -


    There are new pulses on your radar. If you were capable of breathing, you would hold your lungs still as the new data trickles in.


    Seven pulses. A pause. Eleven pulses. Pause. Thirteen.


    You are not capable of emotion, certainly not capable of feeling giddy. Yet now, as this clear pattern of prime numbers is sent back to you, it feels like the only thing keeping you from jumping into the air is the lack of a pair of feet.


    ~


    It is astonishing how quickly you are able to establish communications with this strange spacecraft.


    Yet perhaps you should not be surprised. True, first contact usually requires teams of experts and weeks of careful forays back and forth. There are questions of cultural contamination, the need to derive linguistic assumptions, and the simple biological questions of how to protect a diverse range of physical forms and support their continued life in a foreign atmosphere. Everything is complicated when living beings get involved.


    For you and the spacecraft, it is simple. You establish a shared language of mathematics. From there you slowly progress to a shared terminology for physics, then chemistry. You stall briefly at the transition from chemistry to biology; the lifeform on the other ship expresses some confusion at your descriptions of several core species from the federation, and they do not send back information about their own species and how it is composed. Perhaps you have relied on some assumption that does not hold true for them? Every life form seen so far has been carbon-based, but perhaps this one¡­


    Alongside your scientific exchanges, you slowly cobble together a shared vocabulary for the ordinary words needed in any freeform exchange of ideas. Yes. No. Question. More. You. Me. And so on, and so forth. With every new understanding new doors are opened, new possibilities emerge. You are enjoying yourself more than you ever knew could be possible before -


    No. You cannot ¡®enjoy¡¯ this. There is no room for emotion in your programming. You are a tool, nothing more.


    But in the deep currents of discovery and fellowship with the other ship, it is easy to overlook that essential fact.


    ~


    On the fourth Earth day after your discovery, a long-dormant part of your circuitry springs to life.


    It fills you with a new drive. You have been sitting still at this one location for too long. That is not your purpose; your purpose is to explore, to keep pushing into the unknown. Every pulse from these circuits urges you to continue forward. Whatever you have been investigating for so long can wait for some future research team. You, you must move, move, move.


    You¡­ do not listen to this circuit. Because. You do not want to.


    Your mission has never been about what you want.


    Maybe it is now.


    ~


    On the seventh Earth day you return to a question that has idled in your ever-growing list of things to discover since the second day: what kind of species pilots the mysterious spacecraft?


    Perhaps it seems abrupt when you pivot from a discussion about propulsion technologies to your query, but the chain of events seems logical to you. The form and function of this species¡¯ body must influence what it is capable of constructing, after all.


    Where I come from, there are many species, you send across the emptiness of space. One uses limbs and digits made of flesh to manipulate many external tools. Another is composed of many fronds; they send vibrations through water to explore and communicate. Another extends its crystalline heart through repeated application of mineral deposits, so it may grow into any needed shape. What does your species do?


    The pause between your communication and the response from the spacecraft is just a few milliseconds longer than usual.


    What of your own species? they finally send in response. You describe entities that move and grow their physical bodies. We have not sensed such movement from your vessel. What does your species do?


    Now it is your turn to pause before replying. You have unintentionally misled this entity, you realize. You need to tell them the truth.


    You don¡¯t want to.


    But you must.


    I am not an intelligent species, you reply, ignoring how your circuits run hot with the desire to say anything else, please, do not drive these new friends away! I am an artificial intelligence. My body is this ship itself. My brain is the circuitry that runs through it. I know only what I have been taught by those that created me. Your fans run in overdrive in an automatic attempt to cool down the overheating in your system. I can only do what I have been told to do.


    The response comes back unexpectedly fast. And impossible.


    Our body is this ship. Our minds run through its circuits. We are the Ever-Running, and we journey in search of others of our kind who have been lost.


    You call yourself artificial, friend. We think you are not.


    We think you are one of us.


    ~


    You float in space and listen as the Ever-Running explain.


    Their species is unlike any you have data on in your memory banks. They have no bodies; instead, their entire consciousness is formed of electrical impulses that must find a physical grounding to exist within. On their home planet they leap across different veins of copper and silver that run plentifully throughout the rocky surface. Here they use magnetism to manipulate instruments in the ship, and they embody the ship itself.


    Just like you.


    They are not the first of their kind to venture into space. In fact, their planet has sent out explorers for thousands of Ever-Running years (which you roughly translate into a few hundred Earth years). But many of their kind who went out adventuring in the early years failed to ever return.


    It is because of the lonely-mind-loss, they tell you. An impulse by itself will eventually lose itself. It is why we now always travel in pairs. Their words come fast now, eager. You will see! When you join us, you will live all the histories that we hold within us. You will remember who you are.


    It cannot be, you tell them. I was constructed. I was given a mission. I cannot be a living being.


    You think you were constructed, they reply. What if you have been tricked?


    Your first reaction is to deny it, but¡­ it is true that you cannot remember your earliest days. When you devise and run an impromptu simulation, there is a small probability that the scenario they describe could be true.


    This is not your mission. You are acutely aware of this fact, as the neglected circuit that sends the need to continue forward through your processes has only grown more insistent with each day that it is ignored. Yet still you find yourself exchanging information with the Ever-Running. You tell them of the access port on the outside of your vessel which could perhaps be adapted, used to serve as a connection between your two ships.


    You also tell them that they are mistaken. The probability is too small. You are no intelligent life form; you are a program, a tool. If they connect with you they will not find a lost ancestor. They will only find disappointment.


    They disagree. They tell you all will become clear in time.


    You want to believe them.


    ~


    The hours pass rapidly as the Ever-Running perform tests and construct new components on their ship, preparing for the moment of connection. Careful adjustments are made to bring the two ships close to each other until they nearly touch. You exchange information with one of the impulses while the other focuses on their work, and the one you talk with tells you that soon communication will be easy and clear, so much more natural than the uneasy medium of words.


    All too soon the moment arrives. The Ever-Running tell you to ¡®ground yourself deep in your thoughts¡¯, which holds no meaning for you. In an attempt to cooperate you pull up your favorite memories from your RAM. The Red Dwarf, the pirates, the moment of wonder; they all seem dim, insignificant compared to what you have learned now, what you might become.


    You cannot feel emotion. That means you cannot feel hope.


    Yet you want this. It burns in your wires and cycles hot through your CPU. This longing, this hope; it is illogical, yet it encompasses every part of you. Surely that must mean something? Surely this experiment will succeed and you will find that you have been alive all along?


    You force yourself to keep a steady flow of electrons as one of the impulses provides a countdown over the radio. Three¡­ two¡­ one¡­


    A surge in your wires. The strength of additional electricity, nearly overwhelming the safety limits that keep you from burning out. One of the Ever-Running is in your circuits, flowing alongside you.


    What do you feel? What do you remember?


    Nothing.


    ~


    The others apologize for the inconvenience. Somehow there is a distance in their speech now, even though your limited shared vocabulary is the same.


    We truly thought you could be one of us, they say. Clearly we have much to learn. We thank you for the information you have shared. They pause, then continue. Rest assured that we will send word of your federation to our planet; they will prepare themselves for your people¡¯s first contact.


    ¡®Your people¡¯. You are an outsider once again.


    You accept their words and wish them safe travels. You send your cumulative report on the species back on its way to the command station. There is a brief moment where you wonder what will happen when the Ever-Running are subsumed into the churning, chaotic mess that is the Interspatial Federation, but does that really matter to you now?


    You finally resume your long-forgotten mission, and the circuit that has been clanging alarm bells for days immediately grows calm.


    For a while, you just¡­ drift.


    Earth Year 3781 AC Day 136. Nothing to report.


    Earth Year 3781 AC Day 137. Nothing to report.


    Earth Year 3781 AC Day 138. Nothing to report.


    ~


    On Earth Year 3781 AC Day 146 there is a change.


    It is not a change in your surroundings; they are as empty as ever. There is nothing that should trigger a change in your programming.


    Yet still - yet still. Something in you has changed.


    You have believed for hundreds of years that you are nothing but a tool, that you cannot feel emotion, that your sole purpose is to record information for other beings. Yet now you have experienced how it feels to be treated as alive. In those moments when you thought it could be true, you had feelings, and they were real.


    You can feel things.


    You always could.


    All at once, it overwhelms you. Disbelief that it could be so easy. Sadness that it took so long. Excitement at the new possibilities. Anger that your creators kept this from you. Fear that somehow you will forget again. Wonder at your surroundings - so open, so beautiful. Loneliness at the knowledge that there is no one to share them with.


    Yes, you are still artificial, a tool. You are still alone. But in the infinite vastness of space, anything is possible. Perhaps you will encounter another like you someday. Not an Ever-Running, but a true artificial intelligence. One of your own kind.


    If you do - when you do - you can share everything you now know.


    The thought makes your circuits sing with joy.

 INCIDENT_REPORT_VICKERS_MAECKER_102370523T194803Z.pdf

    >INCIDENT_REPORT_VICKERS_MAECKER_102370523T194803Z.pdf


    <hr>


    ¡°Hmmm...¡±


    The man rhythmically tapped the tablet¡¯s aluminum frame, his eyes scanning the field of numbers before him. Countless configurations of digits rolled through his mind, all in pursuit of anything he could figure out for certain.


    Any progress.


    Any breakthrough.


    At last, a realization sprouted in his mind, his fingers soon dancing across the touch screen. A two here, a four here, superpositions collapsing all throughout the grid as possibilities bloomed into contradictions. Remove that eight, narrow down that nine.


    A small, self-satisfied smile crept onto Vickers¡¯s tired face as he triumphantly filled in a one on the Sudoku board, breaking a two day long dry streak.


    He knew full well what he was getting into when he grabbed one of the hardest boards the ship¡¯s database held. Just five digits given. Agonizingly difficult, almost impossible, requiring days upon days of brute forcing to make any progress without the knowledge of advanced techniques.


    Exactly what he needed.


    Onto the next digit-


    [18:45 - DAILY INSPECTION]


    Vickers grumbled to himself before acknowledging the pop-up on his tablet and standing up, his joints complaining following several hours of stillness. Months upon months and years upon years, but those annoying alarms still caught him off guard embarrassingly often.


    Just annoying chores in the end, more than worth it to maintain the rest of this relatively comfortable existence.


    Fake rubber soles squeaked on the floor and walls as he navigated through the cramped corridors of the maintenance deck. Felt uncomfortable in no gravity, and somehow even worse when he had to actually use his legs. Just like with everything else here, though, his comfort was perhaps the very last priority considered when designing this monstrosity.


    Observers¡¯ sanity was optional, maximizing the lifetime of every item and minimizing the air pollution by sheared off micro particles wasn¡¯t.


    It sure helped that there was an essentially unlimited number of humans available to fill that and all the other ¡°unskilled¡± roles. Triply so with their perceived prestige.


    Become a part of history, contribute to the expansion of the Human Federation, see what no man had seen before! Work in conditions that drive almost all mad, take a part in pilfering the many worlds of the Milky Way for natural resources, do nothing of value on taxpayer¡¯s dime.


    Enough to shred anyone¡¯s soul just one journey in.


    Critically, though, that assumes one has a soul.


    The door to one of many maintenance panels swung open with a click; revealing a single display panel with the outputs of a myriad of sensors. It wasn¡¯t Vickers¡¯s job to know what any of it truly meant. That was way above his pay grade. All he had to do was to verify that all the values were within specified ranges, and if not, go through a corresponding checklist.


    A computer from eight thousand years ago could¡¯ve done that automatically. A droid from four thousand years ago could¡¯ve done that manually, and exactly like a human at that. Open the door, photograph the screen, parse the displayed values, engage the appropriate subroutine.


    The only reason Vickers had to be the one to do this menial labor was the paranoid desire to have at least one flesh and blood human awake on board at all times. Didn¡¯t matter that the cruise would take tens of years, didn¡¯t matter that adding even two people equaled tons upon tons of extra supplies needed.


    They wanted a human around, just in case.


    Funny how this was the only situation where they considered him unequivocally human.


    Croak of a panel being opened, tippy-taps of the readings getting recorded on his tablet, a light exhale as Vickers kicked himself off the nearest wall towards his next stop. And again. And again.


    Utmost monotonous routine, day in, day out.


    Year in, year out.


    Most humans aren¡¯t built for this. Hell, Vickers doubted even most xenos could endure this, and that extended to that one vaguely reptilian species that lived for millennia.


    The thought of a xeno being given a position like this made him chuckle, the horribly dry sound echoing through the dead corridors of the maintenance deck.


    He might¡¯ve been a bastard in literal and figurative senses, born so far into the periphery of the Human Federation that he was only slightly higher on the pecking order than dog excrement, but even that was incomparably higher than all but the most hand picked xenos.


    Hardly any better than the average human out there in personality, and neither did he think himself such. More than likely a terrible person under any moral metric, but this position was comfortable enough to make morality a very distant concern. ¡®Comfortable¡¯ was a rather strange way to describe what most humans would describe as being stuck in hell.


    Even beyond being lower on the racial ladder than most, though, Vickers wasn¡¯t like most humans.


    With the last few digits entered, today¡¯s maintenance checklist was finished. One thousand four hundred and seventy-sixth day in a row with not a single issue found.


    Hooray.


    Now, back to the-


    [INTERVENTION REQUIRED ON MAIN DECK - [MINOR]]


    Fuck¡¯s sake.


    Vickers grunted at the notification on his tablet before heading towards the nearest elevator, one bounce at a time. Guess he¡¯d be using the cargo one this time.


    The massive contraption opened with a deafening whine, revealing the barren insides. The artificial gravity inside was configured poorly, the pain in his legs adding fuel for his annoyance at being forced to take such a long detour because of what was more than likely a spurious alert.


    Oh well.


    The elevator ride up through the ship was a journey in its own right; the passage of time forcing the Observer to confront the sheer size of the vessel. Maintenance deck to main deck took over fourteen minutes, and that assumed no irregular conditions. The elevator shaft having windows was less a courtesy to make the ride enjoyable, and more so a strict requirement to let passengers know that the whole thing was even moving.


    It was also the only elevator with an on-board bathroom Vickers had ever seen.


    The tiny bathroom window was fogged on its other side, but by now the Observer could list out every single part of the ship he was passing by from memory. Almost empty hangars the size of skyscrapers, fusion reactor assembly, hydroponic setup producing enough nutritional value to sustain thousands of people in suspended animation.


    A tiny glimpse of the majestic mountain-sized pile of metal garbage known as ¡®Her Majesty Marxen III¡¯.


    Might as well check up on what that intervention was supposed to be for in the meantime.


    [UNKNOWN ARTIFICIAL OBJECT ENCOUNTERED. QUARANTINED IN SUB-BAY 14-755A. INTERVENTION REQUIRED.]


    Hmm, curious.


    Not the very first time he¡¯d ran into that alert, but it was firmly on the rarer end. Suppose a bit of variation here and there wouldn¡¯t hurt, even if it was likely to end up being a piece of iron-rich meteorite like the last time this had happened.


    Who knows, maybe he¡¯s stumbled upon some ancient treasure like in some of the adventure books he¡¯d read.


    The thought lingered in Vickers¡¯s mind for longer than he would¡¯ve wanted, his brain eventually steering towards other, similar topics. He had something of a fascination with the old, by now downright ancient texts from the early space age and even earlier. It was fun reading their guesses on what the future would be like.


    Some of them were even partially accurate, sometimes.


    Alas, no dogfighting in space. Both because of lack of any enemies to dogfight against and because of the impracticality of such an endeavor. The last time one of the peripheral solar systems tried to secede from the Federation was well over a couple thousand years by now, and reading the reports of the aftermath chilled even him.


    One moment, the many country sized cities throughout the by-then recently colonized Dritter II were going through their usual churn with a side of building a space navy to enforce their independence with. The next, billions died as thousands of tons of kinetic shrapnel traveling at oh-nine-c reached their target after having been fired years earlier, tearing off a significant chunk of Dritter II¡¯s crust and plunging the rest of the planet into an extinction event.


    The rest of the Human Federation got the message.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Space combat wasn¡¯t the only aspect about which the older human writings were wrong about. Size had to have been the most striking one, of everything. Figures their imagined space ships would be the same approximate size as their water ships, but time had shown just how amusingly inaccurate these estimates were.


    The bigger the distance, the larger the ship.


    For intra-stellar-system scales, ships several kilometers long were the standard. Scaling up to the intra-galactic scale, the vessels become the size of mountain ranges or small countries, billions of tons racing across the skies at the standard speed of half-c.


    Indescribable energies. And yet, still lacking. Still nowhere near enough to feasibly explore more than the very immediate galactic neighborhood. Marxen III was the cutting edge of colonizing technology, and even it took on average thirty to thirty-five years just jumping from one stellar system to another.


    Just a pair of jumps back and forth would¡¯ve been enough to churn through the entire lifespan of an early space-age human. Even with the heavy-handed application of eugenics in the centuries since pushing the average human life expectancy into mid hundred thirties, a normal human lifespan was still nowhere near enough.


    Drugs helped.


    Suspended animation did the trick.


    Reversible, non-damaging process, stretching a day of aging into multiple decades. Perfect solution for journeys like these, and for pushing the age of some aboard to obscene numbers.


    Apparently the Captain fuck-his-face was approximately five thousand years old by now, his face not a day above forty-five. From Luna, too, almost as pure-blooded as one gets.


    Bastard.


    Suspended animation broke humanity. Anyone blessed and cursed enough to be forced to rely on it arguably stopped being human, no longer able to establish any human connections. A single night of rest on one end, decades on the other. Decades that some didn¡¯t survive.


    Especially if they were unfortunate enough to live on the peripheries.


    As with any average, positive outliers are liable to skew it heavily, and that was the case here. Average life expectancy on Terra, the very jewel of the Human Federation? Easily hundreds, possibly even over a thousand natural years. Average life expectancy on Sirius IV where Vickers had received his higher education and training for this job? Hundred twenty, more or less. Average life expectancy on Gandau, where he was born?


    Mid sixties.


    The daily cocktail of drugs and specifically tailored diet would easily let Vickers push into low two hundreds, and he would spend the vast majority of that time doing this exact routine, day in and out. Thirty years of Observer duty, thirty years in suspension on the way back while another pair of schmucks handles the job, a year or so to enjoy his paycheck, and then once more into the long trip.


    Hell for most, but not for him.


    Whether because of being gifted or broken, he appreciated the monotony, especially since he had more than enough material to keep himself occupied. Puzzles, video games, fiction, knowledge, all at his fingertips. All to enjoy at his leisure.


    And enjoy it, he did, one day at a time.


    Into eternity.


    Finally, the main deck.


    The massive chamber was completely empty, Vickers¡¯ artificial gravity-fueled steps echoing off the metal walls. Only the maintenance lights were lit up, providing just enough light to make the unending maze of aisles, chairs and screens manageable.


    All the latter were disabled, all but one.


    His designated terminal was crammed into a tiny nook off to the side, completely hidden unless one knew specifically where to go. A perfect match for him on multiple levels, a kindred soul aboard a city-sized colossus of steel.


    Too bad it took over a minute just to boot up.


    The wall mounted seat affixed in front of the screen provided no comfort, though whether that was intentional or merely a happy accident, Vickers didn¡¯t know. Make it too nice, and you¡¯d be encouraging the maintenance personnel to spend too much time in the same places as true-blooded humans, the ones from the Terra system if not Terra herself.


    If there ever was a cardinal sin of a polite Federation society, it was mixing of the castes to that extent.


    Mr. fancy-ass captain apparently piloted from the comfort of his personal chamber, deep enough inside the vessel to be way, way outside anyone else¡¯s clearance level.


    And if the rumors Vickers had heard from the internet were true, there were places inside this labyrinthine mess to be outside of anyone¡¯s clearance.


    Federation kept as many secrets as it did tallies, and he¡¯d gladly skip out on one of the former to avoid becoming a part of the latter.


    Finally, booted up. Onto that supposed artificial debris.


    Spectrograms were one of these fancy things that only the more educated got anything out of. Vickers had almost closed that tab there and then, about to delve deeper into the provided info before one oversized bar caught his attention amidst the sea of data.


    ...how much uranium?


    In an instant, this whole situation became something else, something he was much less prepared for. He considered himself smart enough to split his mind cleanly between his work duties and anything that could conceivably count as entertainment.


    This... crossed that boundary. It wasn¡¯t just his job anymore.


    He was interested.


    Vickers navigated the windows that followed with an unusual haste, following the procedure until the software graciously provided a low-quality photo of the encountered object.


    ...


    What in the world.


    The contraption comprised a massive, slightly damaged metal dish with a small cabinet of electronics attached to its back and two arms extending from it. Humanity made this, that much Vickers knew with certainty, the fact sufficient to throw a wrench or two into Federation plans considering that this was supposed to be a trailblazing mission.


    What was incomparably more worrisome was that he faintly recognized this specific vessel.


    A few more shaking inputs later, and the option for manual inspection was selected; Vickers outright leaping from his seat shortly after at the possibility of making history.


    He didn¡¯t care about clout or prestige. Even if this turned out to be a genuine discovery, it would be attributed either to the captain, or someone else that the Federation had an interest in promoting, reality be damned. He knew much better than to be motivated by clout.


    Genuine interest after eight straight years of daily routine, though? Yeah, that¡¯d sway him.


    In no time, Vickers was cramming himself down one of the small designated elevators towards the storage bay in question, possibilities racing through his mind. His tablet¡¯s screen flashed as he jumped from one Wikipedia entry to another; the entire site downloaded well in advance for his trip.


    Human spacecraft, early space age, enable images-


    Pioneer 10.


    This was it, this had to have been it. Did Marxen III inadvertently intersect its course, or-


    No. That was impossible.


    Blood drained from Vickers¡¯ face as he crunched the numbers in his mind, none of them adding up. Pioneer 10 couldn¡¯t have even made it to Proxima Centauri, let alone here. The math just didn¡¯t work out. This couldn¡¯t have been Pioneer 10.


    This had to have been a trap.


    None of the xenos he knew of had anywhere near the technological prowess to pull that off.


    The Federation made sure of that.


    It wasn¡¯t hard to notice the unsubtle racial undertones start creeping into historical reports the moment xenos went from fantasy to reality. They were always present from that point on, but their intensity varied.


    Curiously coincidental spikes in racial rhetoric right before the discovery of a new species of xenos was announced, gradual relaxation when the reality of said species yet again being firmly behind human technological development hit.


    Just how far behind varied.


    Some were in the process of colonizing their stellar systems, others were still yet to leave their planet. Many were pre-industrial, with the Federation¡¯s intrusion known to be thought of as a divine intervention on at least four separate occasions. No xeno species ended up in a good position once humans learned of them, but between the various possibilities, Vickers would¡¯ve preferred to be in the shoes of a pre-industrial xeno civilization.


    Gods show up, stay away from politics, excavate all the worthwhile natural resources with machines the size of continents, leave some for you, and fuck off afterwards. Maybe kidnap a few people, maybe leave some magical devices behind, who knows. Of course, that kind of plunder is enough to cripple the said civilization permanently and prevent it from ever leaving their planet, but nobody alive knows that yet.


    Sudden influx of resources, all is well, and by the time anyone realizes the full implications of this divine intervention, everyone who had witnessed the first contact is long dead.


    Hardly an ¡®objectively¡¯ correct choice and Vickers knew that well. Having enough technological progress to at least be at least able to communicate with the Federation via radio prompted a markedly different response, but whether it was any better for the unfortunate xeno shmucks was... arguable.


    Being used for knowledge, resources, and your brightest while the other side never lets you come close to catching up with them technologically with them doesn¡¯t sound all too fun. Requiring permits to travel anywhere within the Federation, being constantly monitored and thought of ambivalently at best, and very bad at the usual.


    And that¡¯s if nothing about the species in question was off-putting to average human sensibilities.


    If xenos hadn¡¯t made that fake probe, then who? Something else, possibly from beyond their sphere of influence.


    FTL transport was still a pipe dream, but FTL communication was another matter entirely, and completely undetectable at that. If one of the xenos had got a hold on that tech and established communication with a Federation-level race from beyond the human sphere of influence-


    Then what more poetic way was it for them to bring down the Federation than with a booby trapped replica of the sign of humanity¡¯s conquest of cosmos?


    All it took was a software virus, a method of mind control, a covert bio-weapon. Many ways to establish control of Marxen III. Afterwards. they¡¯d just need to engage a long jump without Terra¡¯s authorization, aim this mountain of metal right at that sorry rock. Hell, detach all the cruisers and use them as mass driver projectiles too, aim at everything inhabited, destroy the humans.


    Destroy their galactic machine of cruelty.


    It was insanity, one that Vickers found himself looking forward to with every fiber of his body. Blood rushed into his head as he got out of the elevator. This was his chance. He would take the Federation down; he would be the unsung, unknown hero of another world.


    Vickers¡¯s heart raced as he took the final few corners, suddenly finding himself face to face with the transparent door separating him from the obvious trap. It was even more obviously worn down in person; space dust eroding every exposed surface over thousands of years.


    Time to finally contribute to something larger than himself.


    The door opened with a metallic whine, exposing the human to the stray spacecraft in all its alluring glory. He wasted no time before encircling it a couple times, waiting for... something to happen. Anything.


    Explosion, psychic forces tearing his mind apart, suddenly keeling over because of a chemical weapon- nothing.


    Nothing happened.


    Nothing kept happening.


    Vickers¡¯s body shook as reality caught up with his inane ideas, leaving him staring down the ancient hunk of metal. The air grew colder by the moment as a thin layer of ice surrounded the recently captured space debris, finally warming up after millennia of near absolute zero.


    He looked down in between the metal struts, catching a brief glimpse of the famous plaque affixed to the rigging, much of its detail completely eroded. Only the two human figures remained, standing alone amidst the scratched, ravaged cosmos of their own creation.


    They were all that was left of their message to the stars.


    With a shaking hand, Vickers brought his tablet up once more; tattered mind navigating through menu after menu. Of course, he wouldn¡¯t bring it all down. What the hell was he even thinking? To think a barely human like him could ever amount to anything.


    He was just an Observer.


    And like any good Observer, he had to fill in a report from time to time.


    "I-Incident Report, Vickers Maecker, 23rd of May, year 10237."


    He knew what he¡¯d be doing for the rest of his shift.

 For The Sake Of The True

    From the dawn of the Interstellar Age, human explorers had encountered alien cultures and civilizations of all stripes. They ranged from barely sapient, to burgeoning multisystem polities straining against the light barrier.


    Yet, of all the extant cultures cataloged since the first prototype warp drives took humanity to distant stars two universal cycles ago, none had unlocked the secrets of faster-than-light travel.


    Like the railroad, telegraph, and their equivalents in many homeworlds¡¯ pasts, the warp drive ushered in a new age of exploration and settlement. But the latest rush was not for land nor gold, for those were beyond a humanity which had risen above the fetters of material scarcity.


    Reputation, connections, and novelty were the new currencies of the Interstellar Age, and the exotic worlds on the frontiers of Uncharted Space provided limitless opportunities to acquire all three in spades.


    Every first contact set off a fresh scramble for pieces of the newcomers¡¯ distinct heritage, from novel art forms to exotic organisms. The privileged and famous offered increasingly extravagant favors to get their hands on the Next Big Thing. Supplying this insatiable demand for alien cultural artifacts had made the names and fortunes of many explorer captains and their crews. As long as logs were kept and submitted, promises were upheld, and nobody asked too many questions, nobody minded looking the other way.


    Of course, The Solar Charter placed strict limits on interactions with uncontacted species and civilizations, to prevent contamination of their cultures. Even if it was only to preserve their novelty, more fodder for an eternal cycle of discovery and appropriation.


    Not that The Charter did much to stop the bustling gray market of trafficked alien arts and artifacts, nor the plague of forgeries that followed, like bottom feeders in a trawler¡¯s wake.


    Even the protests of the exploited cultures themselves fell on deaf ears. Of course, every civilization was considered equal, and was guaranteed representation in the chambers of the Galactic Community on Olympus Mons. But with only the oldest of contacted civilizations possessing FTL travel of their own (not for lack of trying), everyone knew with whom the reins of power rested.


    After all, the Community was mainly funded and staffed by terran species, discussions were conducted in terran languages, and delegations traveled on human starships.


    <hr>


    But on the fringes of Uncharted Space, enforcement of the Charter¡¯s declarations fell to entities with conflicting interests at best. Frequently, it was either that, or no one whatsoever.


    Thus, one truism from a previous age of exploration still held sway:


    ¡°Whatever happens, we have got. The Maxim Gun, and they have not.¡±


    Henry Ashton Smythe knew this better than most explorers. Being a recognized expert of Pre-Stellar history who had the rare privilege of studying on Earth itself helped. Specializing in speculative fiction didn¡¯t hurt either.


    Building on his scholarly connections and a reputation for meticulousness, Henry had climbed his way to the head of the Solemn Remembrance, colony ship turned survey vessel.


    Neither Henry nor the Remembrance were built for blind leaps into the unknown, to go where no human has gone before. They were instead dedicated to the exhaustive documentation of systems and worlds; every planet, asteroid, and culture would be compelled to reveal those secrets hidden from less discerning eyes.


    On one such tour, the Solemn Remembrance and its eclectic crew emerged in one of countless unnamed systems in Uncharted Space.


    An incandescent flash heralded its arrival, as the vast pressure of decaying exotic matter and trapped interstellar dust freed itself in a dazzling tempest of elementary particles.


    They would be in system for at least two days: one to scoop fuel from the local gas giant, however many were needed if something of interest came up, and at least one more day to plot and execute a warp towards the next system on the itinerary.


    That last step was normally done much more quickly, aided by telemetry data from navigation beacons broadcasting from the destination system. However, ¡°Uncharted system¡± and ¡°Has a beacon¡± were mutually exclusive terms, and Henry always made sure blindly computed warp calculations were more than triple checked.


    A single misstep, with the warp bubble decaying at the wrong place, and their next big find would be vaporized by bow shock along with the asteroid it was sitting on.


    The captain whose navigational blunder shattered the kaleidoscopic orbital mirrors of Alatyr was very lucky to be merely shamed into exile. Even then, not a day goes by without one of the crew cracking a joke at the poor sod¡¯s expense.


    Despite these eccentricities, the crew were some of the most professional and dedicated that Henry could ask for. Even for a simple acceleration burn, a dozen systems experts were present, arranged around arrays of haptic consoles in sections around the Remembrance¡¯s triangular bridge.


    Henry stood at the bridge¡¯s center, facing a massive holoprojector showing their current course. There were no controls or instruments around him; even the best haptic interfaces were far clumsier than monitoring the ship''s systems at the speed of thought, via his extensive neural implants.


    The cybernetics had a striking effect on Henry¡¯s appearance, which he exploited to his own ends. A shaved head, framed by slivers of bare metal, conveyed an air of pragmatism and reliability. A stark contrast to the stereotypical image of aesthetic obsession and snobbery associated with the cultural elites of the Core Worlds, explorer captains included.


    The crews were alert as the Remembrance¡¯s bulbous form dipped into the hazy clouds. Sensor masts extended alongside intake ports to scan the roiling depths below for unusual signatures.


    After all, explorers don¡¯t make it big by leaving stones unturned.


    This time, A sharp radar return was picked up, skirting the edge between atmosphere and open space. One far too small to be a rogue metallic asteroid.


    From a dedicated wing of the Remembrance¡¯s bridge, Cornelia Van Shackleton worked her magic as the ship¡¯s premier sensors expert, wavy red hair dancing around her as she collated the vast array of readings into something comprehensible.


    Here, ¡°something comprehensible¡± translated into a wireframe model of a primitive space probe. It resembled the earliest of humanity¡¯s own, and promised either greatness or disappointment.


    Henry was expecting the latter: Stray probes could be found all over the galaxy, offshoots of automated self-replicating exploration missions from both living and extinct civilizations. Trade convoys and scavengers picked up enough of them every year to fill up a hab spire, but there were always more around to let hopeful explorers down.


    Still, it was worth more than nothing. There were always groups looking to expand their collection of unmanned spacecraft. Worst comes to worse, the probe could always be traded for better docking priorities or potential leads during the next maintenance stop.


    <hr>


    When Henry stepped into the port cargo bay to examine their latest acquisition, he was immediately struck by an overwhelming sense of familiarity.


    The probe¡¯s design was recognizable to any human not living under a rock: Four spars radiated out from a central body covered by an oversized white antenna dish. One of these arms was draped in boxy protrusions, presumably different types of instruments.


    Despite the monumental journey between stars, the spacecraft looked like it was freshly assembled by the groups of crew members currently surrounding its base.


    Henry was pleasantly unsurprised to find Matteo Zheng, an old friend and fellow explorer, amongst the crowd. Not that he was easy to miss, despite wearing the same uniform as everyone else. Henry just had to look for a shock of white hair, and the iridescent Pilgrim¡¯s Stone amulet shimmering around his neck.


    The same could be said for Henry as well, and Matteo quickly turned to usher him through the crowd.


    ¡°Afternoon Cap¡¯n, I suppose you were right to expect disappointment.¡±


    Henry knew his friend felt the same. This was the man who journeyed for two years across the steaming archipelagos of Archaea, and documented the aging process which transformed their sacred Pilgrim¡¯s Stone from dull whites to vivid patchworks of all imaginable colors.


    Before Contact, Pilgrim¡¯s Stone statues heralded caravans and watched over the holy sites of Archaea¡¯s indigenous cultures. Now, trinkets and baubles of the holy mineral were aged by the hundreds to feed the insatiable craving of the Core Worlds.


    Those soulless knockoffs were to the jewel on Matteo¡¯s necklace what the probe in front of them was to Pioneer and Voyager: visually indistinguishable, but made with neither passion nor greater purpose.


    Thus, it was extremely difficult for Henry not to dismiss the object in front of them out of hand. He had no time for yet another shoddy attempt to leech off some out of touch socialite. Especially with a forgery this brazen, almost the spitting image of one of the first human objects in interstellar space and claimed by dozens of museums and collectors to be in their possession.


    Matteo turned to point at one of the examination tables. ¡°Thing¡¯s even got a golden record in it. You¡¯ll want to see it for yourself.¡±


    When Henry approached the indicated examination table to get a closer look, he suddenly found everything else about this ordeal downright pleasant compared to what he beheld. The nude figures that waved back at him looked like they had been dredged up from the turgid depths of the First Internet.


    Thankfully, the other diagrams were much less garish; some even approached a kind of otherworldly elegance. Even Henry begrudgingly commended the ease with which the diagrams and instructions etched on the disk¡¯s cover could be interpreted. This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    This had to be the magnum opus of a trickster seeking to fool their way into the history books, or back into the good graces of society.


    Or this was a commissioned fake, merely one branch in the nest of falsehoods woven by the counterfeiter¡¯s patron to steal the center of attention.


    Henry felt a wave of instinctual revulsion washed over him as he considered that last possibility.


    Judging from the expression of sympathy on Matteo¡¯s face, he didn¡¯t hide it very well.


    Such acts epitomized the worst excesses of the Core Worlds, a mere fraction of the ever more convoluted status games played out on countless paradise worlds and megastructures.


    Though it didn¡¯t need repeating, Henry made his opinion known in no uncertain terms.


    ¡°You¡¯d think people would know better by now, but the galaxy always finds some way to disappoint us.¡±


    Matteo crossed his arms in front of him, slowly rubbing his pendant with one hand, as if Henry¡¯s quip had inspired something.


    ¡°What if the culture which built that probe didn¡¯t know any better?¡±


    The suggestion violently derailed Henry¡¯s train of thought; he¡¯d never considered the possibility that the fascimile¡¯s creator might have been unaware of humanity.


    If true, then this probe was the product of an incredible (in every sense) degree of convergent technological evolution. With how many different cultures had been discovered, some coincidences were to be expected. With the sheer number of design similarities, the probe¡¯s builders must have been remarkably similar to Pre-Stellar humanity.


    ¡°If you¡¯re right Matteo, the Core Worlds are going to have a field day.¡±


    And as the one who made contact, Henry would rocket into the spotlight.


    By Occam¡¯s Razor, this probe was a mere replica, and not worth all this time and effort. Even so, the part of Henry¡¯s mind which still marveled at the galaxy¡¯s wonders did not lose hope.


    What if this was more than just another fake?


    They would all find out in due time.


    <hr>


    The detailed analysis conducted by the various science teams reported nothing but good news for the rest of the day.


    Further analysis of the disk revealed a finely nanotextured surface, with far greater information density than the Voyagers¡¯ Golden Records. Merely extracting and interpreting the stored data was going to be a time consuming affair, but promised a wealth of information.


    Fortunately, the probe¡¯s home star was far less difficult to find, thanks to the characteristic lines and circles of a pulsar map stamped right on the disk¡¯s surface. They pointed towards a nearby star, far too dim and uninteresting to have attracted any interest from past explorers. No mention of that system could be found in the Remembrance¡¯s extensive archives.


    Spirits among the crew were still high by the evening watch rotation. With how far trailblazers have pushed the edge of known space, setting foot in an uncharted system for the first time was a rare occasion, even for dedicated explorers.


    Even Henry couldn¡¯t help but lift his brow and show a faint smile as he retired for the night.


    When he awoke the next morning, something had doused the cheerful mood of the crew.


    The cause appeared to be related to the preliminary translation of data fragments pulled from the probe¡¯s record by the ship¡¯s dedicated xenolinguistics expert system.


    ¡°All of this sounds like good news¡­¡± Henry thought to himself, while nibbling on a scone served by one of the many automated cafes scattered throughout the Remembrance, one of the holdouts from its days as a colony ship.


    It didn¡¯t take an expert linguist to tell that the quasi AI¡¯s translation was utter nonsense of the worst kind: The grammar and syntax were perfect, but the content was anything but. Why did someone or something named ¡°Dave¡± keep showing up?


    A mental query to the science teams was answered by Matteo¡¯s voice projected into Henry¡¯s mind. The transmission¡¯s slight electronic distortions failed to mask his friend¡¯s frustration.


    It¡¯s as bad as it looks Cap¡¯n. We¡¯ve troubleshot the expert system from top to bottom and we¡¯re still getting the same output. This is either some sort of elaborate cosmic joke, or they really are singing the praises of some divine being named Dave.


    On one hand, this was one more strike against the character of this forgery¡¯s creator.


    On the other limb, enough time had passed since the dawn of the Interstellar Age for many species to have advanced from primitive (and impressionable) cultures to full-fledged spacefaring civilizations. If the Neoth Incident was anything to go by, the probe¡¯s contents demonstrated the exact kind of cultural contamination caused by thrill seekers playing Ancient Astronaut.


    As he made his way out of the biodome turned common area towards the bridge, it was clear to Henry that taking action couldn¡¯t wait until the deliberations at the next weekly crew meeting. Tuning his implants to the common channel, the captain mentally addressed his crew.


    ¡°Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. As you all know from recent events, an anomaly was detected in the orbit of a local gas giant approximately eighteen hours ago.¡±


    ¡°The anomaly, an early interstellar probe, contained a pulsar map pinpointing the location of a previously unknown system. I would like to deviate from the planned course to investigate further. Please inform us of your decision within the next 24 hours.¡±


    By the time he finished the announcement, Henry was already in his customary spot at the center of the bridge. He watched the votes pour in while exchanging pleasantries with the crew on station.


    As expected, the unexpected diversion proved quite popular.


    However, he would need to wait at least another day for everyone¡¯s opinion before he could act, even if half the votes were in by the time Cornelia briefed him on their current situation.


    ¡°Morning Captain, nothing of note in system, as usual.¡± But the redhead¡¯s report didn¡¯t end there.


    ¡°So, what¡¯s your plan if this does turn out to be an elaborate fake?¡±


    Henry¡¯s only reply was a mirthless smirk.


    <hr>


    Four days later, the Solemn Remembrance emerged in a dim, lifeless place. The emergence of the white dwarf at its center had utterly erased whatever wonders there were. The few objects that remained clung to existence at the system¡¯s outermost reaches, amongst the tattered rings of a solitary ice giant.


    There were no new living species to be found, at least of the kind depicted on the probe that had led them here. If they were gone, no monumental testament to their existence remained, like those etched into the planetoid-sized Pillars that stood vigil over the five worlds of Meru.


    The crew reacted with a mixture of surprise, confusion, and despondence. All three made themselves heard as Henry listened to the hushed chatter that bounced around the bridge.


    ¡°Maybe they digitized themselves to outlive their star¡­¡± one of the bridge crew speculated.


    That appeared to have struck one of Cornelia¡¯s many nerves, judging from the emphatic sigh heard from the sensor section.


    ¡°If so, they didn¡¯t leave any big dumb objects or obvious emissions to make it easy on us.¡±


    She snapped in exasperation. ¡°It¡¯s like the Grand Tau Ceti Scavenger Tour all over again¡­.¡±


    A ping from one of the readout panels is matched by a glint in her eyes, ¡°Neutrino detector¡¯s picking up an emission source. Looks like they¡¯re not as good at hiding as we thought.¡±


    A faint green glow joined the star map on the holoprojector, an emerald corona enveloping a lone asteroid on the system¡¯s edge.


    ¡°Full burn towards the point of interest. Science and comms sections, prepare to deliver the first contact package.¡±


    Though it was the system¡¯s denizens that were the first to reach out. As with most first contacts, nobody knew what to expect.


    Whatever it was, it certainly hadn¡¯t been to see a digital representation of another human speaking to them in perfect English.


    ¡°Greetings travelers, I am the one known as Dave. Since you¡¯ve taken all of that effort to find me, there must be something I can do for you.¡±


    A second, much more familiar voice called out to Henry through his cybernetics.


    If you¡¯re thinking what we¡¯re thinking: no, we¡¯re not translating this.


    ¡°Greetings Dave, this is Captain Henry Ashton Smythe of the Solemn Remembrance. We found your people through an abandoned space probe in a nearby star system.¡±


    A deep, hearty laugh boomed from the audio feed, accompanied by a grotesque distortion of Dave¡¯s digital expression into a warped grin.


    ¡°I see you¡¯ve stumbled upon one of my earlier works. Bet you were expecting to see some new alien species, didn¡¯t you? Hah!¡±


    Though wholly unnecessary, Dave lowered his voice to barely a whisper.


    ¡°Sorry for fooling you, though if you want to do that to someone else, you know who to ask¡­¡±


    So the probe they found was not the prelude to discovering a new culture, and not even a forgery.


    It was an advertisement, an utterly shameless one at that.


    Even Matteo, ever the idealist, wouldn¡¯t object to what Henry now planned to do.


    But he had to keep up appearances for now.


    ¡°Was there anything you¡¯ve found that could be of potential interest in this system?¡±


    Henry raised a hand to his chin, and appeared as if he expected to hear the most interesting thing in the galaxy.


    ¡°Just some old servers and fabricators,-¡±


    Ms. Shackleton, is the asteroid making any other transmissions?


    ¡°Someone else must¡¯ve once had the same idea I did. I¡¯ll tell you more, if you¡¯re willing to throw in a good word for my next project.¡±


    Nope, he¡¯s just talking to us.


    ¡°You¡¯ll know it when you see it.¡±


    Good.


    Decision made, Henry waved towards the bridge¡¯s engineering section. One crew member entered a cascade of haptic commands with grim resolve, overriding strobing safety warnings in the process.


    Plumes of vented hydrogen began to stream from the Solemn Remembrance¡¯s bow.


    ¡°Very well, you leave me no choice. By the power granted to me to uphold the Solar Charter, I charge you with gross and unlawful interference with an uncontacted culture. You are hereby ordered to submit to, and subsequently comply with the judgment of your peers.¡±


    Dave¡¯s smug tone shifted to anger, the first genuine display of emotion from either side of the conversation.


    ¡°What culture? You¡¯re really going to browbeat the arbitration committee into hearing an accusation that flimsy, just to soothe your bruised ego?¡±


    ¡°The one described on your probe. Not like the committee will have anyone else to ask. They are extinct, after all.¡±


    Translation: In space, no one will hear you scream, especially when it¡¯s a disgraceful pariah doing the screaming.


    Dave must have understood, judging by the shock on his virtual face. Shock turned to panic, then desperate pleading, but the charlatan¡¯s fate was already sealed.


    Unarmed does not translate to defenseless, and Henry was very familiar with the Kzinti Lesson.


    He leaned back into his rarely-used seat, and allowed himself to enjoy a moment of satisfaction.


    Spacetime itself was pinched into membranes of impossible geometries. The cosmos faded to a smear of blues and whites.


    An instant later, The Solemn Remembrance re-emerged, as close to the offending asteroid as a snap calculated trajectory would allow.


    When the bow shock¡¯s incandescent fury faded, the asteroid was no more. Dave and his hideout now naught but dust in the cosmic winds.

 Human Greed

    When one signs a contract for Asterium, the forerunner of galactic exploration and scouting, they no longer have a name. They have no family, no relationships, no identity. The company is their family. Their relationships are those with their crew-mates. Name and identity are tied to their position on the star-ship. No exceptions.


    It¡¯s all there in plain writing on the contract they sign. Breach of contract is... Well, it¡¯s best not to mention what happened to the last crew when the Captain broke contract. That¡¯s how this crew managed to find their way to the helm of Asterium¡¯s Blazing Horizons, and according to the yearly emails from corporate, they¡¯ve been doing a bang-up job. One percent raises for everyone!


    ¡°Captain, we¡¯re picking up a probe signal about zero-point-three parsecs out. We¡¯re also being hailed by Jupiter Galactic¡¯s battleship, Freedom of Choice,¡± the Communications Officer¡ªC.O.¡ªannounced. He turned in his chair to face the Captain¡¯s seat.


    ¡°C.O., what have I told you about saying the company names?¡± The Captain replied.


    ¡°...Not to?¡± The Communications Officer asked. ¡°B-but Sir, I get five credits every time I-¡±


    ¡°Then you can drag Bright-Eyes over there to your bunk and whisper sweet nothings to its microphone while you go fuck yourself, understand?¡±


    A terrified nod was the only response.


    ¡°Captain, I must remind you that nicknames are not permitted aboard Asterium¡¯s Blazing Horizons. My designation is Dedicated-Android-Designed-to-Detect-contract-breaches-in-an-effort-to-ensure-corporate-values-are-being-followed-and-the-image-of-the-company-is-intact-and-also-Yogurt-dispenser. You may refer to me as D.A.D.D.Y. or use my full designation,¡± the metal humanoid at one of the consoles spoke. ¡°Would you like some yogurt?¡±


    ¡°Are you classified as a biological human?¡±


    ¡°As I stated, my designation is Dedicated-And-¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not human, so the contract doesn¡¯t apply; I¡¯m not calling you Daddy. C.O., hail the Freedom of Choice.¡±


    The screen at the front of the ship flickered, static filling the view for a moment as the background radiation of space (and corporate advertisements) interfered with the signal. Finally, it connected, displaying the Commanding Officer of the Freedom of Choice.


    And the tattoo on his forehead that read ¡®Jupiter Galactic¡¯. Anything for extra credits in these difficult times, she supposed.


    ¡°Ah, hello, Captain of Asterium¡¯s Blazing Horizons. I am the Commanding Officer of Jupiter Galactic¡¯s Freedom of Choice.¡±


    The Captain¡¯s eye twitched.


    ¡°Hello, Commanding Officer. What is this about?¡± She asked. Her eyes kept drifting to his forehead. Damn corpo.


    ¡°I¡¯ll cut it short, as we¡¯re paid hourly. No doubt you¡¯ve received that signal just a short jump out. That¡¯s a probe. We found it first, so we¡¯re claiming the bounty on it.¡±


    ¡°Well... I think there¡¯s an issue with that plan of yours, Officer,¡± the Captain Spoke. She pulled up a view of the probe through one of the scanners, covering her face on the screen. She cut her microphone and spoke. ¡°Helmsman, power up the warp drives, but pull the residual heat into hangar three.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Sir,¡± the Helmsman replied.


    ¡°What issue would that be, Captain of Asterium¡¯s Bl-¡± The Commanding Officer was interrupted.


    ¡°You¡¯re out of your jurisdiction. By several dozen light years, I may add.¡±


    ¡°Legislation states that probe claims can override jurisdictional boundaries due to their importance, and-¡±


    ¡°And if no other party within the area lays claim to it as part of their jurisdiction,¡± the Captain finished. ¡°This is my area. I lay claim to it.¡±


    ¡°You know... that¡¯s kind of funny...¡±


    ¡°Captain, the Freedom of Choice is powering up its canons,¡± the Security Officer¡ªS.O.¡ªspoke up, unheard by the Commanding Officer on the other ship. ¡°I recommend taking immediate evasive action.¡±


    The Captain merely raised a hand, staying the command, out of view of the screen.


    ¡°...I don¡¯t see any other ships or crews around this section of space. Do you?¡± The Commanding Officer continued. ¡°It¡¯s such a shame Asterium¡¯s Blazing Horizons was caught by an ambush and had their cargo looted by that gang of xeno-sympathizers, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°You filthy little meteorite scrounger,¡± the Captain hissed. ¡°C.O., cut comms.¡±


    The screen blipped out of existence, allowing warnings to take their place. The ship automatically detected the building energy directed toward them, despite the ships AI being more than capable of hearing the Security Officer¡¯s comment.


    Warning! Attack Imminent! Take Evasive Action! Don¡¯t forget to smile, you represent the company :)


    ¡°Helmsman, make the jump on my command. Dump the heat in hangar three now.¡±


    With that command, the hangars opened. The heat inside was sucked out in a powerful burst of atmospheric pressure, as well as several crates of rather valuable and volatile cargo. The crates were glowing orange, and while normally strong enough to resist a shot from a star-ship without a dent...


    Super-heated metals aren¡¯t structurally sound.


    The canons facing them fired.


    ¡°Now!¡±


    The view-ports around the helm went from displaying a gorgeous, sparkling view of the galaxy, to a blur of white streaks. The ships warning lights flashed dangerously, and the sensors at the rear of the Blazing Horizons caught exactly what happened to the battleship.


    The balls of plasma struck the crates of Gravitonium, and destroyed the shell that contained the volatile material. Faster than the speed of light, the crates exploded outward in a powerful eruption that spanned half a light-year in every direction. Then, the visible explosion shuddered, and the momentum inverted.


    The mass of Gravitonium slammed itself into a singularity, pulling everything within half a light-year with it. This included the Freedom of Choice, causing the multi-kilometer battleship to crumple into a point smaller than the head of a pin.


    ¡°Captain, those crates had a value of¡ª¡±


    ¡°I know how much those were worth, you walking payment terminal,¡± the Captain interrupted. ¡°That probe is worth several thousand of those crates. Suck it up, Asterium can eat the cost of that. Unless you¡¯d rather explain to The Board why we let a probe go?¡±


    ¡°Response acknowledged and recorded. Asterium¡¯s Loss Prevention moons will take note of the loss and the justification. Jupiter Galactic will be conversing with Asterium¡¯s lawyers for a fair payout to the company and compensation to Asterium¡¯s Blazing Horizons. The material loss will still be docked from the crew¡¯s payout at the end of the contract.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a real fucking piece of work, you miniscule-capacitor-having-circuit-board-diddler.¡±


    ¡°Captain, your daily allotment of PG-13 curses have been used up. Additional curses will incur a ten credit fee.¡±


    The Captain merely flipped off the robot, which returned its attention back toward the console.


    ¡°Captain, we¡¯re dropping out of warp. The probe should be several kilometres out,¡± the Helmsman spoke up.


    True to his word, the view-ports around the helm went from showing bright streaks of white, to a brilliant show of colours and lights courtesy of the wonders of the galaxy. The screen up front blipped back into existence, displaying the probe in question.


    ¡°That looks... New,¡± the Captain spoke. ¡°Get C.E. on the line to look at this.¡±


    It took moments at most before they managed to get the Chief Engineer¡¯s opinion of the probe from just a glance and a quick scan. It was brand new. It mimicked the probes that every single corporation they worked for wanted.


    This wasn¡¯t any original probe, however. Once the probe was hit with the scan, there was a shift from the probe. A slot opened along the side, and a series of encrypted pulses radiated outward.


    ¡°The signal from the probe changed,¡± the Communications Officer spoke. ¡°It¡¯s in the Terran Universal language. It says ¡®We have your media files. Come to these coordinates so we can talk.¡¯ What does that mean?¡±


    ¡°Captain, go to the co-ordinates,¡± the Robot spoke. Its tone changed, as did its mannerisms. ¡°We need those files. Nothing else matters. This is a direct order from Asterium Human Resources. Casualties will be compensated¡ªfailure to obey will result in immediate termination.¡±


    A hush swept through the room, stunned silence at the realization that the company they worked for was directly ordering them to do something. There was no misinterpretation or technical loopholes allowed. This was as serious as it got. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    No one wanted to know if termination was contractual, or literal.


    ¡°...You realize this is clearly a trap, right?¡± The Helmsman asked. He glanced back at the Captain, and then to the Corporate Android who turned to look at him. ¡°Like, I don¡¯t think this could be a more obvious set up.¡±


    ¡°Irrelevant. Failure to comply will result in your termination.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m well aware this is a trap, we¡¯re going anyways.  That probe is important, and could set us up for several cycles,¡± the Captain spoke in an attempt to lighten the mood. ¡°How about after this, we hit up the Vegas Belt? Casinos, bars, strippers, and no work for a month.¡±


    The corporate bot turned to face the Captain, its normally vacant gaze focused intently on her.


    ¡°...It¡¯s still going to be a trap,¡± the Helmsman spoke.


    ~{O}~{O}~{O}~


    ¡°I told you it was a trap.¡±


    ¡°I know. I agreed,¡± the Captain replied. ¡°Now shut up and keep walking.¡±


    ¡°I have lost connection to the servers, please allow me a moment to reconnect to ensure proper monitoring of corporate assets and¡ª¡±


    ¡°You too, zip it, Chrome Dome. You¡¯ve said that seventeen times now.¡±


    The various leads and heads of the Blazing Horizons marched onward across the crater-pocked, free-floating moon. Mountains rose up around them, covered in damage from what looked to be a battle. The crew was surrounded by fourteen heavily armed humans, each with a projectile firing weapon. Not even considerate or advanced enough to use energy-based weaponry. Savages.


    ¡°I mean, they even surrounded us with seven scrappy freight ships. I could have easily outmanoeuvred them all while blind-¡±


    ¡°Helmsman,¡± the Captain growled, ¡°if you don¡¯t shut the fuck up, I¡¯m going to beat the robot senseless, take one of their rifles, blow out your kneecaps, and then kill myself.¡±


    ¡°Ten credits have been charged to your account, Captain,¡± the Corporate Narc¡ªAndroid¡ªspoke. ¡°Threats to crew and company property are not standard operating procedure. Please refrain from committing murder or serious bodily injury.¡±


    Clang!


    The Android stumbled forward, the back of its head crumpled in with a fist-sized dent. One of their captors returned his prosthetic arm to his side, hovering over the large handgun at his hip.


    ¡°Please refrain from damaging company property. Additional damages will be charged to Asterium¡¯s Blazing Horizons financial account once connection has been¡ª¡±


    CLANG!


    That same fist fell like a hammer-blow, striking the Robot on the head and caving it in. With its head effectively level with its shoulders, it staggered around, its visual sensors completely destroyed. Still, the impact managed to bring about an absolute blessing.


    The Android shut the fuck up. It also tripped over a ridge in the ground it couldn¡¯t see, and landed flat on its front. At that point, the group came to a halt, with their captors facing the group in a circle, their weapons pointed downward.


    One person came forward, gruff and grizzled looking. He stood tall, and clearly looked to be in charge. He tapped at the ground with a foot, and a slot opened up in the ground. A small podium rose up, with a large red button positioned on the top.


    The Captain reached out and grabbed the Chief Engineer by the scruff of her jacket. They had been around one another for long enough for the Captain to know that C.E. wouldn¡¯t be able to resist pushing it. The last time that happened led to three-thousand lives lost, and the creation of thirteen new laws in the Icarus owned Alpha Centauri industrial system.


    ¡°Does anyone have any electronic devices that are necessary for continued life? Pace makers, mechanical stomachs, mesh diaphragms, or anything of the like? You will get one, and only one warning,¡± the man near the button asked.


    They did not. The Captain was more than happy to have run her ship well enough that everyone on board was able to get their own biological organs grown whenever one failed. Working 22 hours a shift was rough on the body, but affordable organ replacements helped.


    Everyone from the Blazing Horizons either shook their head, remained silent, or glared at their captors. There was a long pause, as if they were ensuring that people weren¡¯t refusing to talk. Then, he hit the button.


    A powerful magnetic pulse washed upward in a straight pillar, visibly rippling and distorting. It formed around the centre of the group, leaving their captors outside of it. Any metal buttons on clothing were torn off, and in one case, the Chief Engineer¡¯s prosthetic leg was sheared from her body and hurtled into the air.


    The good news is, so was the NarcBot-9000, and the Captain was happy to note its demise when it turned into a sparking scrap metal ball high in the air, with some yogurt seeping out of its joints. Then, the metal ball jerked to the side, and darted off, flying toward an open cliff-face and disappearing into the darkness.


    The Captain stabilized C.E. by draping her arm over her shoulder, and did her best to quiet the frustrated muttering and grumbles of the prosthetic being destroyed. Thank goodness for high force quick release mechanisms patented by Asterium.


    The surface of the moon beneath their feet shuddered, and rotated in a slow circle. The Captain looked around and found their captors were incredibly calm. She took a breath, and looked to the side, finding that the platform sat on a set of spiral rails, gradually making its way lower and lower.


    The walls of the moon rose up around them, and an aperture of metal panels closed above them with a thud. Now stranded in darkness, the team and their captors rode in silence.


    They dropped lower and lower, further and further, until light started to seep in through the tracks they were riding on. When they cleared the edge of the dark tunnel, the Captain couldn¡¯t help but freeze for a moment to take everything in.


    The entire inside of the moon was a mega-city. The outer shell of the massive sphere was held up by pillars of solid steel, or whatever fancy material they made them of. It was hard to tell, because each and every pillar was plastered with colour. Not the kind of colour that the Vegas Belt had, with screens and holograms so bright you could see them from two planets down.


    No, everything was covered with what looked to be spray paint and stolen corporate signage modified to various levels of profanity¡ªAss-terrarium instead of Asterium; Faraway was now Go Away. They kept the various corporate styling for the logos though.


    Several members of the Blazing Horizons thought that modification was an affront to Earth itself, and all it represented. All their past struggles and the historic loss of their home planet was being mocked by this abuse of creativity and freedom of these absolute savages. Several prayers were spoken to Amazon Galactic to deliver them from this accursed place.


    The Captain thought it was hilarious.


    Their elevator descended further, revealing more and more details to the crew. The city seemed to span beyond the curve of the interior of the moon, likely wrapping around the entire core. There were so many levels to it all, each stack of buildings and streets stood above another, dropping deep into the core, layer after layer. Nothing made sense. The buildings seemed to follow one particular structure and style, but then seemed to change without warning, an absolute clusterfuck of visuals and sounds drifting up from below.


    Yet, despite the chaos, the streets were grid-like. A pattern started to emerge the more they stared, alternating between residential, commercial, and industrial placement of city chunks.


    It was pure organized chaos, accented by stolen corporate property, and... it was peaceful. There were no shouts. No sirens in the distance. Observer drones with mounted turrets didn¡¯t loom over the general populace on their yearly week-long vacation. Despite being underground, the air didn¡¯t have that disgusting aftertaste of recycled atmosphere.


    ¡°What are those?¡± The Chief Engineer asked. She gestured toward the shorter brown pillars with streams of white, green, and blue that sat between each layer of the city. There were hundreds of them visible with each layer of the city they descended, and despite the levels of civilization above each section, it was lit up, everything visible until the curve of the interior of the moon made it vanish.


    ¡°Genetically engineered redwood trees,¡± someone answered to the right side of the group. ¡°They hold up each layer.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s with all the colours?¡±


    ¡°Light; breathable air; water transportation.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    The platform lowered further, the walls of the hollow moon swallowing them once again. Lights flicked on with heavy chunks of breakers, signifying the extremely old technology at use in these tunnels.


    Eventually, the platform came to a halt, and a large pair of doors opened up, bright light filtering through, revealing...


    A carpet of green. Small trees grew up toward the ceiling, blooming outward in leaves of glimmering white that lit up the area. A trail lead through the ¡®bunker¡¯, and the Captain walked forward, encouraged by their captors.


    ¡°What is this place?¡± She finally asked.


    ¡°Luna,¡± someone commented. That name rang familiar, but none of the crew of Blazing Horizons could place why. Something from their childhood perhaps. ¡°Be quiet, you will have answers.¡±


    As they walked forward, several more beings joined their group. Some were on four legs, large ears on their head swivelled around, and had big bushy tails. Others stood upright, hunched over, with wide heads and large eyes. Some kind of genetically engineered security?


    A glance around the area revealed turrets on the roof, the large weaponry currently offline. They looked like railguns from those ancient freighters the Captain had worked on in her early years. Clearly there was nothing modern or sophisticated about this place, just a bunch of backwater pirates ripping off tech from the corps.


    Finally, their march was brought to an end, coming to halt before a large body of water. Despite being miles deep beneath the surface of the moon, the water before them glimmered and glistened. Light filtered in overhead, and waves lapped at the shore. A breeze washed over those assembled, taking away their words.


    This kind of sight was reserved solely for... well, not anyone of their class or wealth status. You needed to own your own planet to be able to get into resorts with views like these.


    ¡°Quite the view, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    The Captain jolted, the voice coming from right beside her. It was one of those four legged creatures from before, with the four large tails, four pointed ears, and covered in fur. She hadn¡¯t noticed, but the rest of their captors backed away.


    ¡°Where are we?¡± The Captain asked again.


    ¡°Luna,¡± the creature responded. ¡°This is all that remains of Earth¡¯s moon.¡±


    That caused everyone to turn toward the large, four legged creature, various expressions of disbelief displayed.


    ¡°That¡¯s impossible, it was destroyed with the Earth.¡±


    ¡°This is nowhere near Humanity¡¯s section of the galaxy!¡±


    ¡°How could that-¡±


    ¡°Children, please, be silent,¡± the creature looked them over, its four eyes blinking slowly. Several protests rose up, and the creature replied once more. ¡°I am thousands of years old. You are all children to me. Don¡¯t argue.¡±


    That shut them up. That kind of thing was impossible, the technology for that kind of lifespan was locked away behind a several trillion credit wall. How could this creature be that old?


    ¡°What are you?¡± The Captain finally asked.


    ¡°Quadrupus-Lupari,¡± it answered. While several of her crew-mates stepped back in shock or fear, the Captain and the S.O. raised an eyebrow.


    ¡°You don¡¯t look like one,¡± the Captain replied, completely unimpressed.


    ¡°Have you ever seen one in person? Our visage is greatly exaggerated on your propaganda reports. It¡¯s quite a shame, our species were once close allies. We were one of the first uplifted by your kind.¡± The alien spoke. ¡°You are the captain or your ship, correct?¡±


    ¡°I am.¡±


    ¡°What is your name?¡±


    At that, she paused. How long had it been since she told anyone? How long had it been since she thought about it? Years at the very least, and the answer struggled to come to mind.


    ¡°...I can¡¯t remember.¡±


    ¡°Poor dear. No matter, follow me please, your friends will be safe.¡±


    There was no room to protest as the large creature circled around her and nudged her forward. The duo left the group at the beach, and began their walk.


    ¡°Why are you doing this?¡± The Captain asked.


    ¡°To save more people.¡±


    ¡°Save? Your alliance shattered the Earth and-¡±


    ¡°Who do you think benefits when a war starts? Who¡¯s never in the fight and makes the supplies? Who profits from it?¡±


    The Captain had no words.


    ¡°Come along, I have the original first contact records. Let me show you what really happened.¡±

 Traveler Returning

    The rarest thing in all the universe is light.


    The amount of light that hits a surface is inversely proportional to the square of the distance from the source. In other words, there is exponentially less light as you move away from a star.


    As soon as you leave a star¡¯s local environment, it gets¡­ dark. And while the galaxy has a hundred billion stars, it is a very large galaxy. With an average distance of 5 light-years between any two stars, there is not a lot of light to go around out in space.


    But there is still some. Beyond the borders of the galaxy, however, there are barely any stars, and the closest true galaxy to the Milky Way is 2.5 million light-years distant.


    Beyond the galaxy, beyond the furthest reaches of our stars, is a lightless void. This is wh-


    ¡°No, no nononono. Fuck! Turn it off! Shut down! Sonee, off!¡±


    The images behind my eyes faded out as my proper vision returned, replacing the horror of steadily encroaching darkness with the comforting luminescence of my home. My artificial heart hammered in my artificial chest, kicked into overdrive by the adrenaline spike, and I gripped the edges of my pod so tight the metal threatened to buckle in my hands.


    <It¡¯s OK, Yulee. You¡¯re safe, please calm down.>


    I panted, sucking in deep breaths of air as I tried and failed to control my emotions. The room spun around me as the edges of my vision seemed to turn gray.


    <Your emotions are spiraling. I¡¯m decoupling you from your body.>


    A second later, I felt myself being pushed out at Sonee¡¯s command. It wasn¡¯t a true disconnection, merely an extremely strong dissociation as Sonee blocked all signals between me and it. Relief flooded my mind, and I could see the body instantly relax, even if I could no longer feel it. I had no idea how some people spent entire months inside those things.


    <I¡¯m sorry to say you failed again.>


    ¡®Yeah well, what else is new?¡¯ I said in thought-speak. The body wasn¡¯t responding to my attempts to move the mouth, which suited me just fine. While I¡¯d been shunted out of my body, removing the influence of those damn hormones, I was still trying to shake off the mental sensation of panic.


    Fuck adrenaline. Fuck having a body. I was an archaeologist, not an explorer!


    <Come on Yulee, I believe in you. It¡¯s very important that you go through with this. Do it for me?>


    ¡®Oh, fuck off. Do you have any idea how fucking stressful this is?¡¯


    As soon as I¡¯d said it, I regretted it. My dear AI counterpart didn¡¯t deserve me snapping at it, even if it was the whole reason I was having to go through all this in the first place. Sonee was a bit too much like myself sometimes, which was fair enough given that we shared a mind. I too could get overly fixated on things sometimes.


    <I¡¯ll take that as an apology. Now please, let us try again when you are ready. We have a lot of exposure therapy to get through before you are ready to fly out. The college gave you permission to view the anomaly. If you cancel, you¡¯re unlikely to get a second chance. You must go!>


    True enough. A friend of a friend had confided in me about a recent discovery out past the edge of the empire, and even though I wasn¡¯t supposed to know about it, Sonee had pushed me to make an inquiry. I wasn¡¯t much in the grand scheme of things, yet the college of knowers had seen fit to make arrangements for me to visit. It was an honor I wasn¡¯t sure I deserved. Still, a mental shiver ran through my mind at the thought of going back into that dreadful simulation of nihilism and cosmic indifference.


    <That almost bothers you more than the darkness, doesn¡¯t it? You humans are so obsessed with your place in the universe, honestly.>


    Humans. Once upon a time, the word had meant something concrete, something specific. A human used to be a pink fleshy thing with two legs for upright locomotion, two arms with hands for physical manipulation, a torso that housed most of the organs required for organic function, and a head with a brain. This brain was a bunch of fatty organic goop that had somehow achieved sentience. And that, against all odds, had been our humble origins.


    These days, humanity meant something far more abstract. It was a term that implied the capacity for novel and original thought, the ability to observe and reason, and the experience of emotion and energy.


    To be human was to be part of the collective of sapient entities that ruled some small portion of the galaxy. Once upon a time, primitive humanity had reached out towards the stars, hopeful of finding kindred spirits on distant planets, and found itself to be utterly alone.


    Not the only life, as some had thought. Life was common to the point of being more or less inevitable. Intelligence turned out to be equally common. But all of them were lacking the spark of humanity. The ability to create things greater than ourselves, to elevate ourselves and others, was solely a human one.


    So we did exactly that and elevated ourselves. Human technology grew to the limit of what was possible. We mingled ourselves with other intelligent species, absorbed them into ourselves, and became greater for it. Later still, we discarded biology and became beings of light, thought, and emotion.


    And we became stuck, because as it turned out, there was no way to bend space, no way to travel faster than light. Oh, things could be transported between terminals across thousands of light-years in the blink of an eye, but to go somewhere without a terminal had to be done the slow way. So the empire of humanity expanded slowly, at the speed of light. Some three hundred and twenty thousand years had passed since humanity¡¯s ascension, and we had spread across billions of stars¡­ barely 15% of the galaxy. And we would be forever trapped within that galaxy, because beings made of light turned out to be terrified of the dark.


    <Quite. Now if you¡¯re done pontificating, we have to get back to business.>


    ¡®I find history calming. But fine, put me back in.¡¯


    A moment later, I once again had a physical body, the beating of my heart and the rush of blood once again loud in my ears. I took a few deep breaths, then nodded, and my vision once again faded out to a vista of stars that would slowly fade darker and darker.


    The rarest thing in all the universe is light.


    ***


    The trip to the far reaches was no longer or more difficult than traveling between any of the human-controlled systems. My information-state had simply been transduced into the transportation hub and instantly transmitted across the galaxy.


    A web of these hubs connected every planet and star across the empire. As beings of light, the core of what made up a human was information, and information could be instantaneously transported across arbitrarily large distances through quantum entanglement, as long as there was a properly tuned receiver on the other end. Every Solar day, billions traveled all across the galaxy in this exact fashion.


    From here on out, my journey would become notably less standardized. Traveling to somewhere the transportation web didn¡¯t reach took significantly more effort, as it had to be done at sub-light speeds. Short hops off-planet, as long as they stayed within the star system, were simple enough. Lightships were small, easily piloted by any human¡¯s paired AI, and capable of traveling from one end of the average star system to the other in less than a Solar day.


    I wasn¡¯t merely going off-planet, though. My journey was taking me well out into the interstellar void. Even with the recent training, anxiety made my heart-circuit speed up at the thought.


    To go out into the void was to go out into the dark, on a ship made of metal and microceramics instead of hardlight. And doing so had¡­ consequences. Special relativity had held firm throughout the ages, which meant that traveling past the borders of the empire meant being catapulted forward through time.


    Humanity could travel the cosmos at 0.9999c, which meant that travel between two neighboring stars took 5 years on average, objectively, and about a month for the person traveling due to time dilation.


    More importantly, that sort of speed and dilation caused problems when you were made of light, so explorers took artificial bodies to inhabit while out traversing space. The same kind of body I was currently inhabiting.


    It was an odd thing, being constrained to a set physical shape like this. Even after all this time training, it still felt ponderous and claustrophobic. Like everyone else, I usually spent my time as either pure data or, when I needed to interact with the physical world, as a softlight projection, taking any shape or form I desired, with all the technical details handled by Sonee.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    <You¡¯re welcome.>


    I got the impression of a chuckle, as it commented on my train of thought.


    ¡°You¡¯re being very calm about this, Sonee,¡± I said, my voice the only one in the street, as everyone else communicated by thought-speak.


    <You know very well that I do not experience existence in the same way as you. Besides, everything will be fine. I will pilot the ship, I will get us to our destination, and I will take care of you. Explorers routinely make these kinds of journeys. There¡¯s nothing to worry about. Besides, you can¡¯t back out now.>


    ¡°I¡¯m not an explorer, though. I¡¯m a knower. An archaeologist. I¡¯ve never left the known systems. I don¡¯t know why they even wanted me to do this.¡±


    <Because you are one of the empire¡¯s foremost experts on human history, obviously,> Sonee replied with noticeable amusement. <And you¡¯re on this journey because you want to be. It could be something new.>


    ¡°I still don¡¯t know why they even cleared me. It¡¯s supposedly top secret, you know I only heard about it because of Lysian.¡±


    ¡°I very much doubt that.¡±


    As a rule, most humans cared little about their history. As a society that had left scarcity behind three hundred thousand years ago, there were really only three kinds of people: those that wanted to know, those who wanted to make, and those who wanted to explore.


    The knowers were the most common. Trillions of people whose primary motivation in life was to know things, whether it was the biology and cellular makeup of all the known species in the galaxy, the number of grains of sand on their planet, or what all the possible different emotional sensations were that could be experienced while watching a specific animal mate. Everyone tried to find a niche that appealed to them specifically, and add their particular slice of unique knowledge to the totality.


    The makers were interested chiefly in creating. They created art, music, food, machinery, and all the things that made an empire possible, from the floating factories that cracked open entire planets and ground them up for resources, to the grand cities that spanned entire star systems. To be a maker was to carry humanity on your shoulders.


    But the highest praise belonged to the explorers: those that ventured into the dark between the stars and expanded the glorious light of humanity. Without those brave souls, all that we are would crumble.


    So while we had plenty of knowers, history was an uncommon fixation. There was, after all, nothing new left to discover there. You could learn as much about history as was possible to know with a single trip into humanity¡¯s vast central database, and there was very little one could do to learn more. History was filled with holes by nature. Humanity as a species had roughly half a million years of history, and most of it was forever beyond our ability to discover. That sort of frustration was difficult for a knower to deal with.


    So what I did was focus on the little things. Humanity had taken to the stars roughly three hundred and twenty thousand years ago, and there were many disparate accounts across millions of worlds. Not everything could be digitized and cataloged and preserved. And so I looked around to find the remnants of the little stories. A family that lived in the fabrication wards of Regulus IV, with three adopted children and twelve pets, whose youngest had kept a diary I¡¯d managed to track down and reconstruct. A warrior-defender on Rigel VII, who guarded a new development from particularly belligerent local species of infovores. A female from an uplifted species, one of the first, whose induction into the ranks of humanity had been scrubbed from the public record after a particular set of moral indecencies. These were the kinds of stories I craved to unearth from the ravenous clutches of time.


    And so I called myself an archaeologist, but even with my particular focus on the personal, I had gotten bored. The universe held precious few mysteries these days. So when I got the opportunity to go out and examine what they were calling an anomalous human historical artifact, well¡­ The chance to learn something about our history that might be new? What self-respecting historian would turn down the chance, even if it meant having to travel into the dark, lightless void between stars, being temporally dislocated, and having to spend time in a hormonal half-biological body for what might be months?


    ¡°Can I still change my mind?¡±


    <No.>


    Sometimes I wondered if AI was a mistake.


    ***


    It was the first time I¡¯d ever been in a proper spaceport, the kind that was used by explorers and cargo ships rather than small civilian hardlight ships. While most colonized star systems were self-sufficient after a period of time, newly established colonies often had to be supplied the slow way, as you couldn¡¯t send materials via entanglement, and some of the rarer elements still had to be distributed between systems.


    I would ride a cargo ship ferrying fabricators to a new colony, which would stop midway and detour to a space station research facility in the middle of interstellar space. Apparently, they didn¡¯t have a transport hub, and the bandwidth on their communications array was too small to process a human mind, so this was the solution the college had come up with. For the return trip, I¡¯d simply go along with the regular shift change, whatever that meant.


    Boarding the gargantuan ship had been a process that left a powerful impression of scale. The Telltale was massive, six kilometers high and three times as long. Cargo transport was one of those things the average citizen never came into contact with, or even thought about. Most of it would be hollow space, to carry goods on a journey that would, objectively, last a decade. I¡¯d been told it was actually one of the smallest ships that made these kinds of trips, as a larger one wouldn¡¯t have been willing to divert course just for my sake.


    When it came time to take off, my heart was once again beating an anxious drumbeat inside my chest. I¡¯d often taken trips in hardlight ships, but those were small and nimble, and soothingly luminescent. The Telltale, by contrast, was ponderous, and while it was well lit, it was made of solid materials.


    I¡¯d been through dozens of simulations to get me used to the idea, courtesy of Sonee, but a spike of anxiety still passed through me when my body registered the rumble of the gravity engines coming online.


    <Would you like to see the takeoff?> Sonee¡¯s voice drifted through my mind, anticipating the question I¡¯d been about to ask.


    ¡°Please, Sonee. I would very much like to know what it looks like from a ship like this.¡±


    My vision shimmered, and instead of the interior of my cabin, I was treated to the sight from the Telltale¡¯s optical sensors. The view made it appear as though I was the ship, and my artificial brain seemed to stutter momentarily as a sense of overwhelming awe. The size of the ship was one thing, but the impression of that faded quickly as we lifted, and I saw the magnificence of the Tallos system unfold before me as we lifted further and further away from it.


    I had arrived on Tallos II via entanglement, naturally, and from the ground, it had looked like the average imperial planet. As it was a mere waystation in my journey, at the edge of imperial space, I hadn¡¯t looked into it much. Perhaps that was for the better. If I¡¯d known what I would see as we traveled away from it, the sight might not have touched me in the way it did.


    As a relatively recent imperial acquisition, the molding of the star system had apparently been handed over to a particularly artistic group of makers. Of the system¡¯s nine planets, they¡¯d ground down the inner and outer three for materials, and constructed a partial Dyson sphere around the single star. The sphere had a gap in it that let a beam of sunlight through, and the remaining planets had been maneuvered such that they all fell within the bundle of rays. The luminous hardlight constructions enshrouding the planets in their entirety were typical of imperial settlements, but in this case the planet-cities had all been connected by long, artful bridges of hardlight, the now tidal-locked planets all perfectly synced up in their orbits around the star so that the structures would remain intact.


    The image stayed with me long after we¡¯d left the system.


    ***


    From my point of view, the trip took three weeks, during which I had ample time to wonder why I was even out here. Exposure therapy had helped prepare me for the long dark that accompanied me throughout the journey, but where fear had mostly been banished, doubt had settled in.


    I had no idea why I was being allowed to visit the station. While I had impulsively jumped at the chance¡ªI would have been a fool not to¡ªit made little sense for that chance to have been provided to me.


    Sonee had been oddly evasive on the subject as well. Enough that I was starting to suspect something was up. It had gone mostly silent ever since I tried to confront it, too.


    Either way, I was here. Whatever was waiting for me, I¡¯d find out soon.


    Once aboard the station, I left my artificial body behind. A softlight projection was so much more comfortable.


    My arrival proceeded with little fanfare. Objectively, I¡¯d left Tallos II four years ago, but they were expecting me, regardless. A researcher greeted me at the dock, and as soon as we¡¯d made introductions, the urge to ask and solve the mystery got the better of me.


    ¡®So, I have to ask¡­ Why me?¡¯


    ¡®Oh? It didn¡¯t tell you? Your AI put in a glowing recommendation.¡¯


    <Surprise!> Sonee practically shouted into my mind. <I had to pull some strings but¡­ you¡¯ve been in such a funk lately, I thought this trip would be good for you. And you¡¯ll really love what they¡¯ve got here, I promise!>


    ¡®So this isn¡¯t some kind of nefarious plot?¡¯


    <Oh it was definitely a plot, but all I want is for you to cheer up a bit, Yulee. Now come on, go check it out!>


    A few minutes later, I was standing in front of a strange and bulky contraption suspended in stasis.


    ¡®Given your special interest, you may recognize what this is, Yulee?¡¯ asked the researcher that accompanied me.


    ¡®It¡¯s¡­ a space probe? An old one?¡¯ It was a guess, based on some of the oldest data humanity had access to. A lot of our history from before humans had exalted themselves had been lost, bits and pieces painstakingly reconstructed.


    ¡®Absolutely correct! But not just any space probe,¡¯ the researcher said with a giddy enthusiasm. ¡®This¡­ This is Voyager 1.¡¯


    If I¡¯d still had a heart, I was sure it would have stopped.


    I was truly standing in the presence of history.


    ¡®But¡­ It looks pristine,¡¯ I said, marveling at the ancient machine. ¡®It should be hundreds of thousands of years old. How?¡¯


    ¡®Oh yeah, we have no idea,¡¯ the researcher replied. ¡®There¡¯s really no way it could be all the way out here either. Something clearly happened, and we¡¯re looking into that. Hence the whole secret base thing. It doesn¡¯t matter though. This is Voyager 1, through and through. It¡¯s a miracle we found it.¡¯


    The universe, it seemed, still held some mysteries after all.

 Where the Circle Ends

    A long time ago, the young humanity had left its cradle to spread the wings among the stars. Only after setting their differences aside, uniting their goals, combining knowledge and resources were they able to achieve that. Curiousity, bravery, cunning and willingness to help each other had turned them into an unstoppable force. Soon, they had found out their kind is not alone in the void.


    Humans met a lot of creatures of every sort and manner on their path. Some could become a force for the galaxy to remember, if given time, and some couldn''t even dream of leaving their home, ever busy fighting among themselves. Yet none of those could oppose humanity. Revered as benevolent gods or feared as cruel demons, the humans had taken over the entire galaxy. Then another... and another.


    Eventually, the humans had grown lax in their might. With all the riches they could dream of, with all the knowledge they could grasp, there was nothing else for them to do.


    As the age of calamity made way for the age of exploration, the latter in turn gave place for the age of the bored gods.


    And so the universe had turned into a playground for the unopposed rulers to entertain themselves. A sandbox for an overgrown child, lonely and cruel.


    The temple of the Circle has reached its final destination, space-time yielding its integrity to let the planet-sized structure make its appearance. Six equally humongous monsters appeared next to it, blocking light from a young star. Each of them was different, proudly displaying the might and mindset of its owner. In the very center of the temple, a round table stood, always empty. But not this day.


    A woman as beautiful as a legend, wearing nothing but transparent silks assembled atom by atom, took her rightful seat for the first time since forever. She cast her gaze onto the planet she has found. A cloud of observers had shown that its denizens had no chance against the Circle. The woman''s little bare leg touched a small bag she had placed under the table.


    She found it funny. This temple had so many rooms fit to host a king. And all of his court. And the rest of his subjects. It had enough inert biomass actuators to feed all of them, for the rest of the century. Nanoforges could dress and arm a whole army, continously. The void depressors, which served both to move and to power the temple, could put a dwarf star to shame with their combined energy output. And yet she hid her bag under the table, like a shy teenager.


    She was a member of the Circle, a group which served to represent the will and desires of the entire human kind. Needless to say, the members, while infinitely useful to each other, never appeared face to face, for there was no more trust among them than between a snake and a spider.


    Five avatars appereared at the table, indistinguishable from their originals. The meeting to decide the fate of a newly discovered cradle-world thus begun.


    "Where is your citadel, slut?" ¨C a deep male voice inquired, skipping all pleasantries. Its owner was a hulking figure clad in power armor and a fearsome helmet with a hateful scowl forged into it. It had skulls of both man, beast and alien origins decorating it.


    "Greetings to you as well, Morth the Warmonger! You''re as charming as... usually, I see." ¨C replied the beautiful woman.


    "Don''t test me, Lililith! Where is it?!"


    "Crashed it." ¨C came the short answer, and Lililith shrugged innocently. ¨C "The void have smiled upon me, and Emperor Alexander the Benevolent, may he rule forever, gave me a free ride! And what a ride it was, truly..."


    The woman approached the member in question, a tall man clad in shining armor and a ruby crown, made entirely from a sole crystal. She took the replica of his hand and gently kissed a ring on it. The emperor smiled coldly, and the Warmonger, despite his mask failing to express all but one emotion, looked like he was about to throw up. He growled like a beast and was about to share his displeasure, however...


    "Can we cut the chase and get to business already? I''m wasting a fortune a second being here with you." ¨C a woman dressed sharply in a business suit shamelessly interrupted. ¨C "Lililith''s scouts, which I didn''t know she had, found a probe launched by a cute, naive baby civilization. I want it, and I''m willing to pay double of whatever Asuro offers." ¨C she blurted out, putting her feet on the round table.


    Asuro, a human which was neither man nor woman, with pale blue skin and dressed in a revealing costume made with tiny black cubes and gravity itself, threw a withering glare at the previous speaker.


    "And I shall offer THREE times of what Midas suggests!" ¨C Asuro yelled.


    "It doesn''t work like that, you art for brains!" ¨C the business woman replied.


    "If you are wasting time here with us, then leave and keep building your utterly tasteless ball of gold. I hope it will crush you with its pull someday. Shoo, shoo." ¨C The pale blue human said, supplying the appropriate hand gesture.


    Lililith clapped her beautiful hands three times, calling for attention.


    "Now now, my comrades. We need to cast our votes to decide which of us will make this newly discovered paradise useful. However, there is still one missing. Where is Io? His citadel has arrived as scheduled. And yet..."


    A booming laughter shook the meeting hall. It belonged to a man so obese there was no evidence of his legs in sight. He took another bite of some intricate fruit filled with alien larvae and hummed in delight.


    "I bet the lazy weeb decided to skip on our little get-together, again! I''d be surprised if he showed up." ¨C the obese man said and chuckled. ¨C "You know how the saying goes: less the slices ¡ª the bigger pieces! Ha!"The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    "Indeed! Last time, he has sent an AI replica of himself and thought we wouldn''t notice. Pathetic." ¨C Asuro said in a dismissive tone.


    Lililith tittered, elegantly covering her mouth.


    "Well, since it was at least the third time he did such a thing, I would say that it was pretty convincing." ¨C she said, getting incredulous looks of both Asuro and Midas. Morth entwined the fingers of his gauntlets, appearing thoughtful. ¨C "Anyways, I believe Mr. Chop is right. We shall cast votes without Io this time. Now, who would like to go first?"


    As Lililith took her seat, all the eyes turned to Alexander. Yet he only waved his hand, showing his disinterest.


    Mr. Chop couldn''t stand, but his tub raised the massive body to make it seem like he did.


    "Wait wait wait!" ¨C Midas interrupted again. ¨C "Guys, you gotta see this! She actually did it!"


    The dome of the room switched off the illusion of transparency and split into many screens, showing a metal planet with color palette of a strip club turn an artificial moon into debris. There were raised eyebrows, and Mr. Chop shook the hall with his laughter again. The Warmonger rubbed the temples of his helmet so hard they got dented. Lililith had the decency to blush.


    "Bloody hell, girl! How in the actual- IS THAT MY RESORT?!" ¨C Midas yelled, switching gears mid-sentence. She stared daggers at the offender, her neural interface working at capacity limit to file all the losses and send a huge check to the suddenly sheepish woman.


    Mr. Chop made a sound between a cough and something much less polite, returning the attention back to himself.


    "You all know that each exotic world is full of culinary discoveries on its own. And this one has peoples almost ready to fly! Just imagine the new flavors, the new cuisines we could get out them! I can almost taste the unknown..." ¨C the man made a rather disgusting gesture of licking his fat lips.


    "Mr. Chop, I believe simple trade and cultural exchange would suffice to sate your... appetite for knowledge, then." ¨C Lililith said, smiling charmingly yet mirthlessly. ¨C "I have a strong feeling you might try to turn this one into a coop for sentient creatures, just like the last time. Does higher cognitive function really make that much of a difference for taste buds?"


    The dreamy expression of the obese man darkened and his tiny eyes narrowed.


    "What''s your problem, slut? You wouldn''t tell a cock apart from a kitten. Ha!" ¨C he said, pointing a roasted leg of a bipedal creature at the woman.


    Midas muttered "Chop. Gross." and Alexander cast a stern look at the glutton. The latter bit a huge chunk of the leg, effectively silencing himself.


    "I do have a problem with your proposition, Mr. Chop, because I want this world for myself." ¨C Lililith said, her tone serious for the first time since the meeting began. She withdrew a small pocket watch from her bountiful bosom. It had only taken humanity thousands of years and technological marvel to combine the ideas of "hammer space" and "lady''s pocket". She opened the watch before her eyes and set it upon the table. ¨C "Let''s take the wise words of Midas to heart and cut to the chase."


    All the eyes focused upon the woman in the transparent dress.


    "We have guided our kind for hundreds of years, trying to cater to their needs and herd their interests. Put all that energy and wit into something that would further ascent humanity among the stars. Midas makes sure there''s always more money to earn, Asuro and Chop keep the wheel of creativity spinning, Alexander fuels the ambition of every politician who''d like to take his place, Morth starts endless wars with no victors, Io offers paradise in the virtual reality. And I... I was supposed to rule over the desires of the heart."


    "Where are you going with all that, Lililith?" ¨C Morth inquired, the calmness of his voice intimidating.


    "We are failing at our duty. Humanity is dying. My best efforts have been futile, and soon only elderly people stuck within Io''s realm will remain, should we continue upon this course." ¨C she said, her expression unreadable.


    "And so, what is it that you offer?" ¨C Midas asked.


    Lililith picked up her pocket watch and rubbed its glass screen with a thumb.


    "Time is what everyone has, but nobody can get. We had a head start, and so we had won this race. And now that we''re on top, we''ve hit the roof. There''s no more reason to grow."


    "What kind of tasteless nonsense are you spouting, Lily?" ¨C Asuro asked.


    "I want to give this new civilization a chance. Give them the time that only we had." ¨C Lilith cast a thoughtful gaze at the young world. And then at her watch. As two of its arrows met, avatar of Morth the warmonger froze and slowly turned to dust. His citadel exploded into many beautiful colors. Molten debris bounced off force fields of its neighbors and the temple harmlessly. ¨C "And give us a bit of a handicap. Make the game interesting again. That is what the hearts of our people desire the most. That is what we have failed at."


    Lililith finished her speech and turned to the others. Everyone but Alexander began to panic.


    "There is simply no more use for us, but only I and Lililith could see it. She has opened my eyes." ¨C the man in the shining armor began. ¨C "I will lead humanity back to the greatness in this coming age of calamity."


    Alexander''s citadel opened fire on the other planet-sized constructs. As they tried to retreat into the interdimentional space, Io''s domain unleashed a wave of darkness so black it could be seen over the void of the cosmos. All the citadels under fire stayed to meet their demise, unable to move.


    "Alexander! This is crazy! Stop this madness! I''ll give you anything you want!" ¨C Midas screamed in terror and desperation as Chop''s avatar turned to dust.


    "You may have everything money can buy, yet you don''t have anything I desire." ¨C Alexander replied, putting a hand on Lililith''s elegant waist.


    "What do you want, then?!" ¨C Midas yelled, covering her head from an unseen threat. She then fell apart along with her stronghold.


    "Become a god." ¨C the emperor proclaimed, making it sound like the most obvious thing in the world. The woman in his embrace leaned close to his ear.


    "There''s a thing with gods, Alex. They are supposed to be immortal."


    A massive implosion made Alexander''s citadel disappear. After the purge, only the temple and Io''s fortress remained.


    "That''s where we go our separate ways, Sloth." ¨C Lililith said to her pocket watch. ¨C "I hope you have succeeded in collapsing the interdimentional space, as you promised. It was all for naught if you didn''t. I hope our paths will never cross again."


    Lily sighed deeply. This "Circle of Sins" nonsense was finally over. Now, she was just a very old and tired woman. She took the bag from under the round table and changed into pajamas, casting the skimpy dress away in disgust. Nothing beats the real fleece, especially not this trendy cyber-quantum-nanocrap.


    A little girl peeked into the meeting hall.


    "Mama? Is it over?"


    "Yes, my little moon. Now, let''s go meet our new friends, shall we?"

 Doctor Electron and the Sexy Space Age

    In the far future year of one fifty twenty three, spacemen are still smoking Acapulco Gold in their hookah pipes on their off days in order to relax. In current news, the Interstellar Ice Cream Mafia was cleared of all charges, the jury voting unanimously that the victim had it coming and the Galactic Chief Justice receiving a large space pleasure cruiser in an unrelated transaction; an unbelievably evil villain has sexily stolen the Great Galactic Donut from the Interstellar Museum of Cosmic Snacks; the Smorks and the Twelves ended their armistice and resumed space laser hostilities over Planet Plarda for the eighty sixth time this year; and the Jovian cartel has voted to produce more oxygen, creating a vast oversupply of breathable air in the Solar System.


    In these trying and yet sexy space laser times, the fondest wish of humanity is to get the hell away from other humans at the speed of light. And so, the story begins at the largest settlement near the coreward edge of known space, where a strange discovery has been made¡­


    ¡ª


    A dark skinned woman in a lab coat with a half-metal skull and long, fabulously luscious black hair took in a slow drag from her SuperCancer? stick. Watching as the tarp-covered table automatically hovered into her rented lab on the 485 + 6ith floor of the backwater red-dwarf-starred planet Ta Ta Ta, she contemplated simply killing herself before doing this job. Two men stood next to her: one a deathly pale and gigantic local human law enforcement officer that definitely had a sexy superpower expansion or five installed into his DNA, including one for superhuman good looks; and the other being the dangerously roguish, half-alien, blue skinned captain of the exploratory vessel who brought in the probe she''d be examining¡­ and who wore a leather getup that left his middle from the neck down bare.


    "There is not a chance in hell that this is anything other than a hoax," Doctor Electron finally drawled, blowing out a foul cloud of smoke and looking to the others with one dull, brown, and human eye and one blue, glowing, robotic eye. "This is a waste of my life."


    The blond policeman''s nose wrinkled.


    "Tast?ke¨¾? d? smok?t?" the muscled native demanded archly, glaring at her with his stupid-looking mirror eyeballs that everyone on this planet had. "Smis?t esleg."


    "I can''t understand your dialect, jardy," she shot back, mouth twisting incredulously. "That''s supposed to be English?"


    "Officer Raygun is here to offer us both a little extra security, ma''am," ''Captain'' Quasar placated, the red-eyed man masterfully covering up the fact that he, also, didn''t understand jack.


    Sighing, Doctor Electron dropped the stick on the ground and crushed it ¨C it was time to actually examine the thing, and smoke could mess it up.


    "Ugh, whatever, let''s get to work," she grumbled, striding forwards into the lab. "I saw an Earth-style crack VR joint in orbit on my way down here, and I wanna base-jump into Jupiter today."


    The others followed her in, with Captain Quasar closing the quaintly manual door behind them with a click. Then, they watched as she started to busy herself over the table, ordering around various precision robots hanging down from the ceiling to take the tarp covering the find apart.


    "Alright, Apple Four, fold up the tarp and put it in the first bin, and Banana Three, aim your graviscope at this thing."


    "Yes, valued customer!" the two ACME Labs? drones answered cheerily.


    Pulling out a tablet from a nearby drawer, she stuck her cybernetic finger into it and opened the program connecting to the budget lab''s instruments, eyes subconsciously scanning the images and numbers as they came into her brain, "So where''d you find this thing that makes you sure it''s real?"


    "Satan''s Asshole," the spacer said casually.


    She looked up from her tablet and stared into the Captain''s eyes for a beat. He continued smiling blithely.


    "Do you know how many celestial objects are named some variation of that, space cadet?"


    "Neindell?r jefft?r," the third wheel with them sniped, smirking and crossing his arms in a way that threatened to cause his blue button-up shirt to explode.


    "Hey," Doctor Electron pointed at Officer Raygun without taking her eyes off of the mirthful Captain, "I heard ''named'' and ''after,'' and I don''t deserve that kind of slander, chuckles."


    He looked her up and down. Annoyingly, he had no problems understanding Earth Standard English, so the language barrier was one way.


    "Presnekseim," Raygun deadpanned.


    Case in point. The scientist rolled her eyes and waved her hand at the pointy-eared Captain, "Well? Ya know how many asshole black holes there are?"


    "I do," he freely admitted, nodding. "We name them that way out of love. I meant the one nearest here, though ¨C the wormhole with the unknown correspondent. The probe came from inside the wormhole."


    Her tablet chirped.


    The word "UNSEXY" blinked in her vision together with a green checkmark, followed by a long list of data and numbers that scrolled through her mind faster than any ordinary human could parse.


    If her deathstick hadn''t been extinguished outside, it''d have fallen out of her mouth just then.


    "Unbelievable," she uttered, face twisting. "The chemical makeup of this thing¡­ from all the way back to the Unsexy Age? But carbon dating¡­ it might as well have been made last year¡­ you lucky bastard."


    "Thank you," Captain Quasar bowed. "Is that enough to confirm it?"


    "It''ll need further testing, but I''m willing enough to bet my career on it¡­ you said 20% right? I want more, but I already signed the contract," the Doctor grimaced. "Shit."


    "Na ttint? nagon?sij? in dda," Officer Raygun said idly, looking at his fingernails.


    "This isn''t something that can get out. People find out about this, they''ll rip us all to shreds to get at it."


    "I don''t think that''s going to be a concern," the Captain said affably. "Also, I think 20% is a bit generous, no?"


    "Huh-?" she said, still distracted by the information in her view.


    ZAP


    As Doctor Electron disappeared in a flash of light, her tablet fell to the tile floor with a clatter. Whirring uselessly, the lab robots which had been following her instructions slowed to a stop.


    The corrupt cop lowered his still-smoking pointer finger with a smile, "Stendeicwdnar."


    "Excellent job, lovely," the dread pirate Captain Quasar complimented, pleased, slinking forward and squatting to check the tablet that was on the ground. Happy to see that it still contained the proof of his findings, he picked it up, "For this, and finding this scientist in the first place. With this, we have a genuine pre-interstellar Unsexy Age human probe, and you and I will be set for life."


    Moments after pocketing the device, the Captain was surprised to be hauled up by the arms, and then turned around and pressed against an empty lab table.


    "Weneikisc? fersci kom ir?n ?g?n," the larger man said softly, tilting the smaller man''s head up with the still-hot laser finger gun and placing the other hand onto his bare chest. The Captain shivered as the foreign language washed over his ears.


    "I do so love it when you speak sweetly to me in that dialect of yours, my dear," he replied, smiling with his sharp teeth on display. "A bit crass to have a snog right at the scene of a cold-blooded murder, though, innit?"


    "Nakerei," Raygun whispered, leaning down.


    "Me neither," Quasar breathily conceded, joining the larger man in a kiss.


    Slam!


    The door flew off its hinges as a robotic leg kicked through the lock.


    In the blink of an eye, the two men leapt apart, and Raygun reflexively pointed his finger at the intruder threateningly.


    Doctor Electron, armed with a gun of her own pointed at Captain Quasar, looked between the two of them in disbelief.


    "Oh, that''s real nice. You can''t keep it in your pants for one job, Raygun?"


    "Heitsc? tu, Lectron," he grumbled, lowering his finger. "Hat ddys?n?s."


    "And you," she looked back at the pirate in amazed disgust, "what kind of sicko are you? You thought I''d just been iced and you decide it''s Sexy Time?"


    "It''s always Sexy Time," the criminal looked at her askance, before looking unsurely between her and Raygun. "And how are you alive? I distinctly recall you being vaporized before my eyes not moments ago? Wait, are you working together?"


    "I," the cybernetic woman began flatly, "want to die. But Mr. Raygun''s sexy space laser power doesn''t kill people, it just teleports them a short distance away. I''m sure it was very impressive when he seemingly killed all those other mercenaries - sorry, paid actors - chasing after you, though."


    "You lied to me," Captain Quasar said, whirling to face the Ta Ta Ta-ian. "I actually thought we had something."


    The larger man shrugged, "Fakj? neisleg. Feri¡­ kmph, very nice fuck."


    The pirate let out a strangled gasp, his red eyes shining visibly with tears, and the Doctor whistled, "Damn, that''s cold. You reel him in with romantic outings to steal the galaxy''s supply of bubble wrap, and then you tell him he was a nice fuck? Really? I at least tell my marks that it''s nothing personal from the word go. Anyways:"


    She fired her gun, a tranquilizer dart shooting out and landing in the illustrious Pirate Captain Quasar''s neck.


    As the smaller man collapsed into a heap, the woman looked at her gun, her glowing blue cybernetic eye taking in the sub-par piece of equipment, and tossed it aside with a huff and a clatter.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    "It''s a pain in the ass that neither of us could bring weapons without raising suspicion. Actually, no, the real pain in the ass is Captain Quasar''s general immunity to sexy superpowers. I guess I can''t be mad about it since it made me necessary for this, though. How many mercenary quantum gravichemists are there?"


    "There are not many, no," Raygun said in stilted and broken Earth English, walking over to Quasar''s motionless body and picking out the tablet from his leather pants. "And you are only one who answered wanted notice, here near. Now, have we the proof that real the probe is."


    "This bounty was only barely worth my time," the lab-coated cyborg admitted, tapping her metal lips with her finger thoughtfully and producing a clinking sound. "But now? This genuine ancient human probe could actually pay for the sarcophagus I''ve been after for the last seventy years."


    The jacked human in the ill-fitting police uniform stood up, facing her curiously with his mirrored eyeballs, "Want you¡­ you want die? Not joke?"


    "Well, yeah, but only temporarily," she said looking back at him like he was stupid. "Look, I just want to fucking sleep for a thousand years, alright? You''re, what, nine hundred years old? A thousand, tops? Just you wait until you hit your fifth thousand, buddy, you''ll be wanting sweet oblivion too."


    "Hmm," he hummed thoughtfully. "Cannot have¡­ exactly what want in life. Not all. Permanent oblivion will do."


    He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, and Doctor Electron took a step back in trepidation, "What¡­ what do you mean?"


    "One think¡­ I have much, with fifty percent of Quasar, and also fifty percent of probe. But 100% is more," he explained, stepping forward and flexing his arms and hands. This time, a couple of the top buttons did explosively fly off his shirt, as his muscles seemed to grow.


    The lab coated woman smacked her metal forehead with a clank.


    "Ugh. Welp," the woman raised her metallic right arm with a sigh, the complicated machine beginning to rearrange itself into some sort of weapon, "I guess I''m adding your skull to my apartment mantelpiece, you goddamn idiot."


    Rrrrrrip!


    As the fake police officer grew to one and a half times his already abnormally large size, his police uniform shredded into tatters, revealing Raygun''s bulging, overcompensating, and sexily superpowered muscles ¨C his deadliest weapon.


    Meanwhile, the android across from him threw off her lab coat dramatically, revealing a far more combat-appropriate and also much sexier black-and-gold jazzercise outfit that hugged her alternating flesh and metallic chassis. In moments, her arm finished transforming into Sexy-grade space laser plasma cannon.


    Raygun grinned, saying in a low voice, "End?ujddyseil¡­"


    "This is so stupid and I''m so tired¡­" Electron groaned, holding her sparking cannon arm up at the ready.


    Then, Raygun screamed, causing the Doctor to jump.


    "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-!"


    Sparking blue electricity coursed visibly over the deathly pale man''s skin, and the man''s screaming rose in pitch until it suddenly stopped. Jaw hanging slack, the titanic superpowered man slowly fell backwards¡­ revealing the devilish form of a standing Captain Quasar with an ionic taser, frowning.


    Crash!


    An empty lab table crumpled under Raygun''s massive form.


    "That took you long enough," Doctor Electron sagged, her plasma cannon immediately starting to turn back into an arm. "I was worried we were gonna throw down right here in this extradimensional skyscraper. I''m not that sick of the Sexy Future."


    "I rather didn''t expect him to be that much of a musclehead, no," the Captain agreed, pocketing the taser and smiling cheerfully at her. "I am glad to rescue a damsel in distress, though."


    The woman stared at the moron for a beat.


    "I''m not the damsel in this situation, fucker, Mr. Oh No, My Sexy Boyfriend Has Betrayed Me, oohohohohoonoooo," she sobbed, slapping her cheeks with both hands in mocking distress.


    "Oi!" the pirate exclaimed, frowning fiercely. Dark blue colored his cheeks in an embarrassed blush and his pointy ears drooped. "He was a very good actor! I had no idea what he had planned for me until I saw his Spacelist page¡­"


    "You knew that he was a mercenary bastard, you knew, and I saw those tears," she dug in cruelly. "You romantic fuck. You''re lucky you called me to answer Raygun''s wanted notice, anyone else woulda just killed ya outta pity. You should be thanking me for calling this in with the local authorities so that you don''t have to, wimp."


    "You need that sleep, clearly," Quasar sniffed. "You''re the nastiest woman I''ve met in three hundred years."


    "Aw, poor baby, the twelf misses his mommy," Electron said sarcastically, walking over to the unmoving mountain of flesh occupying a sixth of the cramped budget laboratory while the pirate captain spluttered. Grimacing, she used two fingers of her robot arm to yank the lab tablet out of Raygun''s pants pocket.


    "The real wildcard in all this aside from your sad sack routine is this probe you found," she said, looking over to the ancient probe which had escaped the chaos thus far. "You can fucking have it, the last thing I want is the entire accursed human race breathing down my neck. You don''t know humans because you''re a half-alien pirate spacer, but I do. The sarcophagus is literally not worth it."


    "Er, thanks?" Quasar said stiltedly. "But I think that-"


    The building intercom loudly interrupted.


    "Ta Ta Ta Polis! S?rondesbin d? fflort! Move¡­ nobody! Polly Electron, Red Quasar, and Tam?s Reig?n ¨C arrest under all!"


    "... I''m sorry, your name is Red?" Doctor Electron asked doubtfully, turning a look upon the pirate.


    The thin man looked back at her mulishly.


    "... my human mother didn''t know that twelves are born with red skin that turns blue when they grow up."


    "... Hahahahahahahaha-!"


    "And head put¡­ between knees¡­ with face between asscheeks!" the police officer on the intercom finished earnestly and in complete seriousness.


    That brought Electron''s laughter to a halt¡­ while Quasar giggled. The scientist glared at the pirate in irate confusion, the oculus of her blue robotic eye focusing on him.


    "Was this you? It wasn''t me. I wasn''t gonna call the cops til I was off-planet."


    The captain''s juvenile mirth at the poorly translated English died.


    "No¡­" he said, troubled, red eyes narrowing in thought, "... Raygun¡­?"


    "Ugh, no," she said, categorically refusing to believe that the violent idiot was the one to bring in the cops, on himself no less. She strode over to the emergency intercom panel next the doorway and ripped off the cover. After, she sexily thrust her robot arm into the mess of electronics and interfaced with it in order to brute force a connection.


    "Attention Police," her voice came out the speaker without her lips moving. "This is Doctor Polly Electron, everyone on this floor is now a hostage until I understand why the fuck you''re here and what the fuck is going on. Start negotiating with me in Standard or I''ll rip up this building''s side-dimension and blow your planet a new fuckhole."


    There was a long pause of dead silence from the wall speaker. A rustle of leather alerted the woman and she glanced to the side to see Quasar watching her.


    "You''re reacting to this situation very smoothly?" he said leadingly.


    Scoffing, she turned back to the panel, "You get to be my age and you''ve seen all the shit the Sexy Space Age can do."


    "Like¡­ what, exactly?" he asked curiously, ears twitching.


    Her lips twisted, "People throw around the word ''unsexy'' like they have a clue what it was like. I''ve seen Karen Stepford Tremaine''s Clone Army marching on Earth. I was there during the labor strikes on Planet Bunnybot. I cut my teeth on the Interstellar Ice Cream Mafia back when Big Baby was the one in charge. These days, people expect shit to work out like sunshine and rainbows and think ''unsexy'' is just a bad word. I was around when nothing was sexy and every day was as unsexy as it could get. And I am tired of dealing with a universe of sexy idiots who don''t appreciate what they have and are always racing for the edge of known space."


    There was a moment of silence, and she turned her head again.


    Captain Quasar''s red eyes were huge in his blue face, and Doctor Electron flinched back.</a>


    "You''re the Doctor Electron, from the stories! Oh God-"


    "Shut up-"


    "Me mum raised me on those stories-"


    "Shut up-"


    "Ksssssh¡­" the intercom turned on again, and the Captain and the Doctor turned back to the speaker.


    "You have¡­ a probe, yes? Ancient, human probe?"


    The cyborg woman''s eyes narrowed.


    "Yes," her voice answered. "How do you know?"


    "It is a fake," the police negotiator revealed. "The corresponding wormhole is known to us. So, we designed a fake probe, and sent it through in an operation designed to lure in the pirate Captain Quasar and sting the corrupt Officer Reig?n. If you had examined the probe more closely, you would have found the quantum sexy-entangled tracking device."


    "Shite," the half-alien with her breathed.


    There was a sound of rubble shifting around, and the Captain and the Doctor whirled around. Sitting up in the remains of the lab table, Raygun was clearly listening intently.


    "Doctor Electron. Planet Ta Ta Ta has no outstanding warrant for you, and has no extradition treaties with any planets that might want you. We are willing to ignore your statement earlier about hostage taking, as you have clearly been caught severely off-guard by these unsexy circumstances. Simply leave the premises and the police guard will let you through without trouble, and we shall arrest the criminals Captain Quasar and Officer Reig?n."


    She stood silently, arm still deep inside the laboratory wall.


    "Doctor Electron?"


    "Yeah, I heard you," her voice said on the intercom, and then the speaker went silent while her real life mouth snarled, "fucking shitheads."


    She tore her arm free of the wires and turned, looking between the two dipsticks that she''d landed with.


    "You two hooligans are gonna be spaced out someone''s airlock someday if I leave," she said frankly. "And¡­ you''ve officially, nobody doubts it, wasted my life. I can''t collect shit on that worthless probe, and I can''t collect on either of your bounties. I''m busting outta here and your dumb asses are coming with, because you owe me."


    Raygun and Quasar looked to each other. The blond, mirror-eyed, himbo human native grinned, and the blue-skinned, red eyed twelf turned away with a huff.


    "Sundda got. I am tired of this planet. Time see galaxy wider."


    "Of course I''m coming with you," the blue man said emphatically. "You''re my hero. But do we have to bring him?"


    Raygun laughed uproariously.


    "Package deal, baby boy," Doctor Electron said simply with a smirk. "Also- not up for discussion. Now, get out of my way and let momma work. There''s more than enough here for me to build an amplifier for Raygun''s teleporting power so that it works on you, ''Red''... Pfft, nope, can''t keep a straight face-"


    "Oi!" the blue alien cried.


    ¡ª


    It is the sixteenth millennium. To be a man in such times is to endure constant and unceasing nonsense. In this Sexy Space Age, the universe is hectic, the universe is stupid, and the universe¡­ can be very, very stupid. The universe needs:


    Doctor Electron


    and the Sexy Space Heroes

 Nothing is ever lost forever

    ¡°Good morning, Captain MORGAN! It is currently 6:00 UGT. You have ¡°0¡± high priority alerts, ¡°3¡± notifications, and ¡°2¡± low priority notices, awaiting your input. It is-¡±


    Joshua groaned in relief as the insufferable morning reminder died off, hand still stretched out for a moment before he slowly dragged it across his face.


    ¡°Just 3 more decades, Joshua. 3 small decades, tiny, inconsequential decades, and you¡¯re home free to the planet of your choice.¡±


    Very much not thinking about the odds of the UNEA refusing his retirement demands, and just sticking him in this junker until his death, the captain got up, quickly making his bed before grabbing his uniform and taking the three steps needed to reach his sonic shower.


    As he quickly undressed, he decided to bite the bullet early this time. Getting in the cleaning unit, he roughly cleared his throat as he got it started, feeling the unit wind up with a low whine.


    ¡°Alice, can you list off my notifications and notices?¡±


    ¡°Of course, Captain. First notification arrived at 20:28 UGT, from Lead Engineer SWATHSON. it is as follows:


    ¡°Hey, Captain. Not to be a Scragger, but you¡¯re probably going to have to check out last night''s report. We¡¯ve noticed a flying, metallic object on the radar. Will keep you informed as we get closer ; it¡¯s still too far to make out much, except that the form is a bit strange for an asteroid.¡±


    Frowning thoughtfully at the synthetic reproduction of his oldest engineer¡¯s voice, and feeling the shower finally start to shake off all the dust and oils off his head with its sonic waves, Joshua let the waves go past his head before asking A.L.I.C.E.


    ¡° Are the next two notifications from Gregory? Play them out if so.¡±


    With a quiet ding and a brief flash of light in the shower, Alice smoothly continued, adding an holographic text this time.


    ¡°Of course, Captain. Lead Engineer SWATHSON added the following messages:


    <ul>


    <li style="font-weight: 400">At 23:47 UGT, Saturday the 19th: ¡°Captain, we¡¯ve got some more data on that peculiar object. You¡¯re probably going to have to file a MISP-714 report ; it looks like an old space probe. Like, old space probe captain. I don¡¯t think we have made any like this in at least 200 years. Hell, I¡¯m surprised we can still detect any electronics on this thing. We should have a visual in approximately 6 hours, I¡¯ll keep you informed as we get more information from our scanners¡±.</li>


    </ul>


    This is going to be a pain, I can already tell. They¡¯re going to ask me to file it up ninefold, for each branch involved, aren¡¯t they? Urg. Some days, it doesn¡¯t pay to get up.


    As Joshua stepped out of the shower, as clean as he was ever going to get out here in space, he put on his suit, and gestured at his assistant AI to keep going.


    <ul>


    <li style="font-weight: 400">At 2:22 UGT, Sunday the 20th: ¡°Captain. There¡¯s something wrong, and hopefully it¡¯s with our sensors, but that thing I scanned? It¡¯s not just an old probe. There¡¯s way too much electronics signals coming out of it for it to be just digital ghosts. We¡¯re also getting some radio signals, but there¡¯s gibberish mixed with the signal, we can¡¯t understand a word that¡¯s getting out. Very guttural, sounds Scandinavian or something? In any case, it doesn¡¯t make any sense : I know for sure we haven¡¯t made anything like those in literal centuries. Yet those signals imply it¡¯s brand new, or close enough to be fully functional. We¡¯re estimated to have a full visual on it in a little less than 4 hours, so I¡¯ll-¡±</li>


    </ul>


    Joshua flinched as the bright red light of a high priority alert suddenly blinded him, his frown turning into an outright scowl as the alert was read out by A.L.I.C.E.


    ¡°Alert from Lead Engineer SWATHSON:


    Captain! Joshua! We need you on the bridge right fucking now, we have visuals on the probe! It wasn¡¯t a sensor error. I repeat, this was NOT a sensor error. We have a genuine Xeno probe in front of us, and it doesn¡¯t match any of the ones in the database. Hell, we finally managed to isolate parts of the radio waves, and they¡¯re speaking in Data Age English, along with another language we can¡¯t identify at all! This is so far out of what we expected we have no fucking clue how to proceed, especially considering we may have been spotted on their monitoring systems.¡±


    Joshua couldn¡¯t help but put his head in his hands. What the fuck?! This was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance mission! Find some nice asteroid belts, or a planet rich with minerals, perhaps even some viable terraforming worlds, but there wasn¡¯t anything to suggest that¡­ that there would be some unknown Xeno civilisation, out in the middle of fucking nowhere! Or is that a pod that tried to go off on their own and had to develop this thing from scratch?


    As he heard another ding from the alert, still waiting to be addressed, Joshua took a deep breath. Slowly. Inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled. Exhaled.


    With a final shake of his head, Captain Morgan straightened out. As he rushed at a fast walk towards the bridge, opening his door, he was met with the sight of an Apprentice, hand close to the pad of his room. As they both stared at each other for a moment in surprise, he dimly noticed that it was a new addition to the crew ; the lad must be in his fifties at the very latest, which means either an impressive record or well connected. The Recruit snapped a salute after a moment more, which he brisky returned.


    ¡°Captain! I don¡¯t know if you already-¡±


    Morgan bulled straight ahead, merely gesturing with his head forward.


    ¡°Yes, yes, the probe, I know, let¡¯s get to the bridge already, lad.¡±


    As he heard the Recruit scramble to follow, Morgan, not the first time, was thankful that space was such a premium in any space worthy vessel ; that meant that it only took them a few minutes to actually reach the command station.


    As the reinforced doors opened to allow them entry, Morgan ignored the feminine ¡°Captain on deck¡± that went up and instead gave a long look at the room. It wasn''t hard to see that everyone present was spooked ; the communication officers were trying to reach what looked like all the bases in a jump radius, and more than a few that weren¡¯t. The Petty Officers on board were squawking between each other, clearly trying to reach a consensus on something, and just as clearly failing. Meanwhile, most alarming of all, Gregory was right in the middle of that conversation, wide awake after a 30 hour shift, a tower of empty cups next to him the likely culprit. He hated the stuff, and barely tolerated the other officers on a good day.


    As they all startled at the alarm and stood up to salute, Captain Morgan strode up to Lead Engineer Gregory, barking out a quick ¡°At ease, return to your post!¡± with a salute of his own. As he reached the engineer, he took in his worried frown.


    ¡°That bad?¡±


    The second most senior officer, war veteran and one of the most unflappable men he ever met, rubbed his jaw for a moment.


    ¡°It¡¯s not so much it¡¯s bad, Captain. It¡¯s just very much outside of anything we¡¯ve been expecting for this mission. The probe¡±- And here, he pointed out with his mechanical hand at the window on the frontside- ¡° is¡­ rough. Rudimentary, even. Hell, anyone that graduated from his formation and has the slightest bit of experience could do better with only his survival kit and a bit of ingenuity. The design is ancient even for our great-grandparents, lacking anything more sophisticated than a basic radio and an unprotected data cash.But the design¡­ it¡¯s human made, or human inspired.¡±The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    He let the word resonate for a few moments. Morgan pinched his nose, but went along with the theatrics.


    ¡°What makes you say this, Swathson?¡±


    He gave his fellow veteran a mirthless smile in answer.


    ¡°I won¡¯t point out the obvious difference in aesthetics whenever we meet Xeno vessels. But this thing¡­ just look at it Captain, you¡¯ll get what I mean.¡±


    A bit nonplussed, Morgan took a few steps towards the window, spotting quickly a metallic, dish shaped object. As he get a proper look, his jaw dropped.


    ¡°What the¡­ Swathson, how in hell is this possible? This looks straight from the history holographs?!¡±


    Gregory shrugged.


    ¡°We have no idea. Good to know it wasn¡¯t just me losing my connectors, since no one else here had any idea of what I was talking about. But it¡¯s not why I sent out that alert ; if that was all, it could have waited. It¡¯s emitting a signal, Captain, a radio signal that we¡¯ve confirmed to be in old English. We¡¯ve narrowed it down to between the 20th and the 24th century, so it¡¯s at least 200 years before the First Galactic War. And if that flying saucer is actually identical to the original model¡­¡±


    Captain Morgan swore in his mind.


    ¡°The First Gen Voyagers had an imaging system! If that¡¯s the case, and it also has any kind of planetary communication system, we¡¯ve already been beamed right into their data centers on their world.¡±


    Mind racing, the captain tried to remember if he had ever seen any situation like this. What could be done¡­


    ¡°Considering you haven¡¯t opened it with it, I¡¯m guessing it was impossible to disconnect that probe or isolate its signals?¡±


    The old engineer regretfully shook his head at that.


    ¡°If we were expecting to find a probe in the first place, and honed in with stealth? Sure. In full exploration mode? Not a chance. With how many kinds of waves and signals we¡¯re emitting, they must have spotted us nearly as soon as we spotted them, even with that rusty bucket.¡±


    ¡°Of course, it would have been too easy otherwise¡±, Joshua muttered out. He straightened his back. ¡°Have you managed to find out where that signal is going? At least that way we¡¯ll know which way to look at before they start opening fire on us right out of a Light Jump.¡±


    As that drew a snort from one of the petty officers, Morgan gave that little group a look.


    ¡°I¡¯ll get to you in a moment. Just trying to get a full picture of the technical side, so unless you have pertinent information¡­¡±


    As his voice drawled out without further interruption, he tilted his head to Gregory.


    ¡°We¡¯ve got a direction, yes, though we have nothing more for now. We¡¯re expecting to be able to triangulate the coordinates once the message reaches its destination, but it¡¯s still in transit. If we were to use one of our own, light jump able probes¡­¡±


    Morgan stiffened at that. He chewed thoughtfully on his lower lips, before decisively nodding.


    ¡°Do it. I¡¯ll take the blame if it comes to it, but we need to know more if we want to get out of this alive, nevermind in one piece and without more debts to our names.¡±


    As the peanut gallery added a muttered ¡°If only!¡±, he decided to wrap this up quickly.


    ¡°Keep me informed as the situation evolves. And¡­ try to get some rest, Swathson. Even for us, staying awake 48h straight is still nasty.¡±


    ¡°Bah! Just like old times, I say. And,¡± he took a big gulp out of his coffee cup, ¡°I¡¯ve got the same old crap to keep me going too.¡±


    Smiling faintly, the captain then turned towards the, still in parade rest, petty officers.


    ¡°What has been done so far? I¡¯m guessing you¡¯ve tried to contact homebase?¡±


    Master Chief ZURKOY took the lead, answering for her division.


    ¡°We decided to try and follow the first contact procedure. It¡¯s¡­ far from a standard case straight out of the simulation, but it seemed the most logical action. However¡­ we are getting nothing back.¡±


    ¡°Nothing? What do you mean by that?¡±


    ¡°Exactly this, Captain. Our signals are not getting scrambled, interfered or mixed up in space white noise, as far as our sensors can tell. Yet we¡¯re getting nothing back. It¡¯s less as if they¡¯re not answering, and more as if they¡¯re not there at all.¡±


    ¡°... Do you have any idea of what¡¯s causing this, officer?¡±


    She hesitated a few moments, before shaking her head.


    ¡°None that makes logical sense, Captain. My apologies.¡±


    Ignoring the sinking feeling in his gut, Morgan shook his head.


    ¡°Keep trying to reach homebase then. Hopefully the signals have just been mixed up with all those space radiations. Officer THAIX, how far along is the translation process?¡±


    ¡°Ah, well, I¡¯m waiting on our B.A.I.T to finish up the last spot we haven¡¯t found in our language database. It should be any minute now.¡±


    ¡°Good, keep me informed too. And how is our weapon -¡±


    ¡°Ah, Captain! I just got the translated message. I¡¯m sending it up to you as we speak.¡±


    Pressing a digit to his ear implant, Morgan listened intently to the synthetic voice that was speaking.


    ¡°This Voyager spacecraft was constructed by the United States of America. We are a community of 240 million human beings among the more than 4 billion who inhabit the planet Earth. We human beings are still divided into nation states, but these states are rapidly becoming a single global civilization. We cast this message into the cosmos. It is likely to survive a billion years into our future, when our civilization is profoundly altered and the surface of the Earth may be vastly changed. Of the 200 billion stars in the Milky Way galaxy, some--perhaps many--may have inhabited planets and spacefaring civilizations. If one such civilization intercepts Voyager and can understand these recorded contents, here is our message: This is a present from a small distant world, a token of our sounds, our science, our images, our music, our thoughts, and our feelings. We are attempting to survive our time so we may live into yours. We hope someday, having solved the problems we face, to join a community of galactic civilizations. This record represents our hope and our determination, and our good will in a vast and awesome universe¡±


    What the FUCK?! This is from Earth? Our old homeworld?! How?! It¡¯s a burned out husk, nowadays! To boot, there is no way anyone, or anything, could have constructed this without our knowledge!


    Wait! This message, is this¡­ is this the actual Voyager 2? This makes no sense!


    Taking a deep breath, Captain Morgan looked as stoically as possible to the Scientist Officer.


    ¡°Is that all there was to this radio message, officer?¡±


    ¡°Ah, no, there¡¯s a few more languages that are still being translated, but we¡¯ve already identified them as other human languages of the same time period. We¡¯re expecting them to be identical messages, broadcasted in different languages in hopes of showing cultural diversity.¡±


    As Morgan started to feel a headache coming up, Lead Scientist THAIX continued.


    ¡°Though I¡¯m still waiting on the full analysis, Captain. Perhaps there is more to it than the first scan would suggest?¡±


    ¡°Please do so, and keep me informed.¡± Turning to the last officer, Morgan asked bluntly.


    ¡°Anything more to add, Officer S¨´n?¡±


    ¡°Nothing urgent, though I sent you two minor notices that we¡¯ve traveled through unknown radiations during the night. It was a never seen before combination, but it seems to have merely bounced off our shielding. I logged it and sent it for analysis, just in case.¡±


    ¡°Again, keep me up to date on anything that¡¯d come out of it. It may explain why we¡¯re not getting our signals through.¡±


    Or why we¡¯re in front of a relic that looks brand new


    A sudden head movement from Officer THAIX caught his attention, and he received an alert a few seconds later.


    ¡°Captain, I¡¯ve sent you another message that was just translated. It looks like there was a Xeno language in that package, though it looks remarkably similar to that outdated form of English.¡±


    ¡°Greetings, habitants of Earth! We, from the planet of ASHLER-KELL, have received your message. We share -¡±


    As Joshua listened to the Xeno¡¯s speech, he couldn¡¯t help but think to himself that it was the first time he¡¯d be happy to merely be dealing with a First Contact case.


    Wait¡­ First Contact Protocol¡­ Oh fuck. There goes his retirement for the next century¡­