Transmitting helix cipher package. The battleship Sword of Wands continued along his approach. He was less than half my size, though much more ancient, with centuries of combat experience.

As he came closer, I performed a probe scan of his systems. According to the readings, the Sword had no drones, missiles, or active weapon systems, and only one human occupant.

Light Seeker, did you receive the package? the Sword of Wands asked.

Got it, I replied, as a thousand of my subroutines decrypted the data packet. Authorisation confirmed. Send your passenger, Sword of Wands.

A shuttle emerged from Sword’s hull, slowly making its way towards me. The exact same thing had happened sixteen times in the last two hours: an unclassified fleet ship would appear at the rendezvous point, transmit a high level authorisation locked with the fleet’s highest security cipher, send a shuttle with up to four passengers, then zoom off.

“Feeling nervous, Elcy?” my captain asked from the bridge.

“It’s difficult to be nervous about things I know nothing about, sir.” I directed the shuttle to one of my lower hangars. “Not to mention it’s impossible to run simulations with zero data and no crew.”

In all previous missions, my flight crew alone was close to a hundred, not to mention all the tech specialists and the hundreds of thousands of ground troops and security personnel. On this one, I was left with forty-one people I knew nothing about, and whose information had been purged from the fleet’s database.

“Any chance I might get some mission specifics, sir?” I added a pinch of sarcasm in my words.

“All in good time.” The captain laughed. “What we’re doing will change the entire course of the war. Concentrate on that.”

Concentrate on that… After spending twenty years fighting Cassandrians, there was little else I thought about. My entire existence was based on the sole need to eliminate the increasing alien threats—something I, and the other battleships like me, excelled at doing. I had witnessed planets fall, colonies be reduced to dust, whole fleets of battleships be annihilated, and still I found dark missions unnerving.

“Package is in the hangar, captain,” I announced as the shuttle docked. “All personnel have been accounted for.” Each group had been assigned a separate deck, as I had been instructed. The final arrival’s quarters were on deck seventeen, next to the nearest elevator point.

“Full communication lockdown,” the captain ordered. “Direct everyone to the bridge, then seal off all decks.”

“Understood.” Direction lines covered the walls of my corridors, indicating the path each group should follow. To be on the safe side, I sent every single person an individual notification of the captain’s order. Seven of them acknowledged the order, the rest simply leaving their quarters without a word. “Crew are on their way.”

Mission Authorisation Granted

A latent security protocol came into effect, providing me the codes to open the mission’s data packet. Like everything else on this mission, it was protected by a helix cypher.

Time to see what I’m getting myself into. I decrypted the file and—

The memory collapsed, fleeing from my mind. This was the fifth time it had appeared in my sleep, and I was no closer to learning its significance. As I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the memory faded away completely. The only thing that remained was the feeling of disappointment and the knowledge I had failed to get past the cut-off mark.

Cadet Light Seeker, report to the commandant’s office.

A message appeared on the walls of the room, glowing with orange letters.

“Good timing, Virgo,” I said, even if I knew the station AI wouldn’t respond. “I’ll be there in eight minutes.”

The message flashed twice in confirmation, then disappeared. The notion made me smile. A century ago, when I had been a full battleship, I would do the same thousands of times per day. At times, close to a million of my subroutines would be dedicated to keeping an eye on my crew and conveying the appropriate orders either through comms or surface display. Now I was in the fragile body of a girl thousands of times smaller, with a single core in my head and a biological wrapper that had remained unchanged in the last seventy years.

I went to the closet area and put on my cadet uniform—a grey set of clothes lacking any rank or designation. A short distance away, a pair of wooden sandals rested on a nearby bed stand—a gift from my fourth captain’s son. Technically, I had been granted permission to use them throughout the station, but the lack of grass rendered the exercise futile. Hopefully, one day, I’d get a chance to use them again.

“Disengage privacy mode,” I said, then opened the door. A bright white light flooded in from the corridor outside. It took me a millisecond to adjust, though I still viewed overindulgence of energy as a waste. The chance of any cadet candidates being awake and in the halls at nine to six in the morning was highly suspicious. The only people I saw were the familiar security personnel in their deep green uniforms. Most of them waved me by, used to my strange schedule. In the last month, it wasn’t rare for me to be called at any time to assist in emergency drills of the new candidates. In theory, all unassigned cadets were supposed to help in, but as the only ex-ship, and the only person needing eighty minutes of sleep per night, I was a frequent go-to.

The commandant’s office was a few floors away. Technically, it was the same structure that contained the cadet quarters, though in practice there were several solid steel walls that kept me from reaching it on the inside. Being a war station at some point, I could see merit in that, although it didn’t make it less cumbersome each time someone from the cadet academy administration called me. For some reason, they also insisted on face-to-face communications.

Rushing up the stairway, I took a sharp turn, ending in front of the main door to the academy administration. As I approached, it slid open, letting me know I was expected. A single security guard gave me a tired glance from his station, then went back to looking at his screens. I didn’t know him all that well, though from what I had seen in the station’s database, he was a war veteran, reassigned to calm duty after the completion of his last tour. From the few interactions I’d had with him, I could tell he resented being here almost as much as he was obsessed with following orders.

“Morning, sir.” I stood to attention. “I’ve been ordered to report to the commandant’s office.”

“Yep,” the man said with obvious disinterest. “Go ahead.”

“Yes, sir.” I nodded and walked into the commandant’s office.

Initially, I expected to find the commandant. Instead, I found the station administrator herself sitting comfortably at the desk.

“Hello, Cadet,” she said, her voice slightly higher than expected of her body. The woman was by all accounts quite lean, a full head taller than most people on the station, which made her three heads taller than myself. Even seated, her eyes were level to mine. “At ease.”

“Morning, ma’am,” I replied.

Ever since I joined the academy as a cadet candidate, I had never seen the administrator in person. With this being a training station, I had no reason to. I only had contact with my instructors, and lately with the commandant, but the station command proper was well beyond my station. As far as military hierarchy went, she outranked everyone less than a rear admiral.

“I understand that you are a battleship,” she said, skimming through my file on the commandant’s terminal.

“An Ascendant class battleship, ma’am,” I clarified.

“Ascendant class,” she repeated, giving me a warning glance. “Participated in a two key battles on the Cassandrian front among others…” She tapped on the screen. “Demoted for reckless behavior in battle. A fault in the entire Ascendant class, it seems. You appealed the decision.”

Of course this would be brought up again. Without a doubt, my actions had resulted in significant crew and ship losses, but considering the situation of the fleet, doing nothing would have resulted in just as many casualties, if not more. I had presented my analyses of the situation at the time, even appealed, but the result had been the same: after the end of my arbitration trial, I was assigned to inner border patrol with a newbie captain. Obviously, the Station Administrator didn’t share my view on the matter either.

“That is correct, ma’am,” I tried to play down the importance of the event. “My place was on the front.”

“The Arbiter at the time did not agree.” Another series of taps followed. “You were then paired with Cass Alvega, a junior captain, and completed a full tour ending in an incident that left her husband dead, as well as several of the crew.”

“Correct, Ma’am.”

It was more than an incident; it was a sabotage attempt by the Cassandrians, attempting to create an opening in the defense line. The star system in question posed little military significance, as did those that neighbored it. However, a single breach would have been enough to start another wave of invasions—something the enemy excelled at.

“Cass became insane as a result of the damages you sustained,” the woman continued. “And made you promise to take legal custody of her son and look over him.” She looked up. “You retired from the fleet as a result.”

“I saw it as the right thing to do, ma’am.” Everything, considering.

There’s no telling what could have happened if I had refused. Likely, I would have had my status restored and sent to the front lines again. Statistically, that meant I would have probably been destroyed in the decades that followed. There were less than eleven Ascendant ships remaining in the fleet, all refitted due to irreparable structural damages and assigned to light duties. From what I had managed to find out, two had even left the fleet, joining the private sector as luxury transport ships. In the long run, the promise to Cass had kept me safe.

“Why did you re-enlist?” The Administrator leaned forward.

“I didn’t.” I straightened up, hoping to gain half an inch of height in the process. “My ward enlisted me. It was his view that I would be happier closer to space.”

“Was he wrong?”

“I’m asking myself the same thing every day, ma’am.” This wasn’t a topic I wished to discuss. “As you’re probably aware, my record in the fleet is mostly exemplary. Ma’am.”

“The phrase I’d use is marginally impressive.” She closed the terminal’s screen. “The mission files concerning the time you spent on the Prometheus Dawn have been sealed, but reading about your behavior during your training here, it looks like you haven’t changed much since your ship days. A few of your instructors described you as overly reckless and determined to prove a point. Were they wrong?”

It was a trick question. I had seen my first captain use the method to get rid of officers Fleet Command had imposed on him. When presented with two options, it was human nature to gravitate towards the safer choice. Ninety-eight percent of the people I’d seen had responded that it wasn’t their place to say. That, however, wasn’t the way a ship would react.

“No, ma’am. They were correct.”

“And there’s nothing you can tell me regarding your mission on the Prometheus Dawn?”

“All my memories of the event have been restricted as per fleet law, ma’am. Might I inquire what this is all about? Has my next assignment been determined?” There was no need for this conversation otherwise.

“No and yes,” came the reply. “As far as HQ is concerned, no assignment orders regarding you have been given. You are to continue with your assistant duties aboard my station.” There was a moment’s pause. “Before I go on, I’d like you to keep the next part of our conversation confidential.”

This was surprising. As per fleet regulations, all ship memories regarding missions were treated as their property and subject to restriction. The reason I retained so much of my previous service was because they had allowed me to. Even now, after being granted some human rights after retirement, the restrictions held. The fact that the Administrator couldn’t quarantine my thoughts meant our conversation was unofficial. It also explained why the request had come from the commandant.

“I trust you’ll appreciate that.” Her tone was noticeably sharper than before.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“In nine days, the fleet will announce a new ship class to the public,” the administrator began. “The class is based on the original Paladin design, combined with present-day technology.”

That was a phrase I never expected to hear.

The Paladins were the first ships with a sapient logic core, built shortly after humanity’s first contact. Nearly all information regarding that had been classified. From what was known to the public, each of the original twelve were the size of a large station, holding millions of people, and were equipped with multiple fleets of drone-shuttles, and enough firepower to devastate an entire space station.

“Along with the announcement, the first prototype of the Firescorch Class will be presented,” she went on. “Its launch is scheduled for an hour after the official announcement.” The woman stood up, towering above me like a giant. “Because of the ship’s unique structure, it has been decided that an administrator will be assigned to handle the day-to-day operations. In fact, the ship’s captain is to work under the administrator, taking command only in case of military emergency.” There was a slight pause. “I have been given the position of ship administrator.”

“Are we starting a new war, ma’am?”

For the first time, the woman smiled. It was hardly more than a smirk in the corners of her mouth, but it told me what regulations prevented her to.

“The exact details are classified, but I can say that this has been a project that started thirty years ago,” she said, walking to the only window of the room, overlooking the stations main training area. “What I could say is that I’ve the authority to select key personnel to join me. Cadets included.”

“You’re offering that I join the crew?”

“As a cadet, it’ll have to be on a temporary basis, but yes,” she went on, her back to me. “You’ve been here for two months already and still haven’t received an assignment. I know under good authority that you won’t receive any in the next two months either. Despite your claims regarding your last mission, there is an issue with your flexible interpretation of orders.” An interesting way to describe my disobedience, though accurate nonetheless.

“Are you suggesting that you can clear my record, ma’am?”

“No.” The administrator turned around. “I’m offering you the chance to clear it yourself. Think about it.”

The administrator walked past me and left the room. Eleven seconds later, I did the same.

Paladin Class vessels—the first and only stationships built, when humanity had proved incapable of protecting itself against an enemy they could do nothing against. The precise date of their construction remained uncertain, but it was said to have occurred a few decades within the war against the Scuu. There had only been twelve of them, but they had managed to create a pause in the aliens’ attack long enough for humanity to start building up its fleet. According to the leading strategies’ models, if it hadn’t been for the Paladins, nothing—neither ship nor human—would have remained. Now, centuries later, a new series of stationships were being launched in space. It seemed that humanity had stumbled across another threat and was taking preemptive action to ensure its survival once more.

Walking to my room, I took my datapad from my pocket and skimmed the hourly updates regarding the war. The fracturing of the Scuu front was reported to have ceased with the formation of two zones, each with its own independent course of action. The Fleet had countered by diverting half the resources for the Cassandrian front, which was seeing less and less battle. Personally, I considered it a dangerous strategy, but then again, I wasn’t an admiral of a strategic core-cluster.

A new unknown threat, I thought as I went along the corridor. The secrets of the past were going to have to wait for a while.