Alert messages flashed on all of my corridor walls. People were running about in coordinated chaos, pouring from their quarters to the armories. Ground troops and security teams were barricading all shuttle bays and reinforcing my reactor areas. Millions of my subroutines were following everyone's data streams while I fended off Cassandrian cruisers and coordinated my actions with the remaining ships in the area. All attack strategic simulations had been completely off, resulting in the enemy breaching our lines with their first wave. The real devastation had occurred in the subsequent two waves, wiping out three-quarters of our fleet and scattering what was left throughout the system.

“Are the weak spots secure?” Captain Augustus shouted from the bridge. He was taking the whole thing exceptionally well compared to the rest of the crew, and even beyond. There had been thirty-two reports of captains resigning command or attempting outright desertion. Six had commited suicide. “Wilco, how's the reactor?”

“Finishing the third layer of defence, skipper,” the weapons officer replied through comm. “Starting on the fourth.”

“You have three minutes,” the captain barked. “Rookie, how are the shuttle bays?”

“The shuttle bays have been designed to be impregnable, captain,” I replied and almost immediately caught the start of a growl coming from Augustus. “Even so, my security teams have gone into position, as per your instructions. I estimate them being at seventy percent readiness.”

“Tell them to hurry up!” he yelled. “And get me someone from stratop!”

“Command has been ignoring my requests, sir. I suspect they might be overloaded.”

Augustus didn't reply, but I knew his thoughts on the subject. He had gotten into a long shouting match with command on the bridge, contesting the no-retreat order four and a half minutes after the initial attack. Unfortunately, he hadn't gotten his way. All surviving ships had been ordered to remain in the system and defend it until fleet reinforcements arrived.

“Shuttle bay readiness at eighty percent, sir.” I performed a deep area scan. No new Cassandrain energy signatures were present, though I wasn't able to detect any new fleet ships either. “Based on initial simulations, every ship in the system will be destroyed in approximately ninety-eight minutes if no additional help arrives.”

“What else is new?” Augustus grumbled. “Those idiots in strategy can't tell a feint from a wedge,” he hissed under his breath. “Wilco, update!”

“Halfway done on four, skipper,” the reply came. “Will start on five.”

“No time. Keep it to four, but make them hold.”

“Will do, skipper.”

“Captain, the chances of boarding are infinitesimally small.” I ran the numbers. Based on data from seventy simulations, there was a point-zero-zero-three chance of the Cassandrians making such an attempt.

The last time an enemy boarding operation had been successful was seventy-one years before I had been built, according to the fleet database archive. Back then, battleships had relied on sentinel droids for internal protection and automatic core shutdown protocols hadn't been instated yet. There were whispers that one of the captured ships had led to a significant security breach. The fleet had denied it and classified all related materials and memories, but a few years later, ships began being built with protocols allowing them to self-destruct their cores. The modification, officially known as the Safeguard Protocol, had been installed on anything exceeding a basic AI intelligence. Decades later, about the time my construction had commenced, political backlash had forced the human military structure to remove the requirement for anything other than ships.

Crossfire missile barrage, Northeast Light transmitted. Seven sources all targeting our cluster. I'm taking evasive action.

Launching countermeasures to cover you, Nel, Solid Oak responded. He was our missile boat, who had joined up with the rest of us in the chaos of the second wave.

Five new ships are on an approach vector. Carrier class, Northeast Light continued. Simulations show I'll get heavy surface damage. I'm breaking off.

I launched all remaining countermeasures and mini sats to reduce the damage of the thirty missiles heading my way. According to simulation projections, seven were going to hit me, dealing mostly superficial damage. If I broke off, the number would be reduced to three.

“Thirty missiles heading our way, captain,” I informed. “Impact in fourteen seconds. Preparing to break off from our combat cluster.”

“Wilco, buckle up. We're in the dispersal phase,” Augustus shouted. “Rookie, find an optimal escape vector. Avoid any planets.”

“I've found a ship cluster I could join, captain,” our navigations officer shouted. “Based on simulations, we could reach it with acceptable damage.”

“No groups. They're leading us there. Our only chance is to go solo and hold off boarding until the cavalry arrives.”

“Are you sure it'll come, skipper?” Wilco asked through the comm. “Not much point in sending more troops to the slaughter.”

“We'll lose more ships if we let the Cassies take the system,” Augustus grumbled. “Salva, you have the bridge,” he said to the navigations officer. “I'll be in my quarters.”

“Thanks, Cap.” Salva said, her words dripping with sarcasm.

“Brace for impact,” I said, transmitting the message to every space on me.

Precisely one second later, the first missile hit. It started as a light tap on the exterior of my hull as the ordinance blossomed in a sphere of energy, expanding with every millisecond. Two consecutive waves of scorching heat crashed onto me, peeling the layers of defensive nanites. Immediately, I initiated the seal-off procedures of the affected area. If my hull was breached, eighty-three people were likely going to die, but five hundred and nineteen were going to be saved. A second tap followed, then a third, a fourth, a fifth. Five missiles managed to achieve contact—two more than in my simulations—sending shock waves throughout my hull. Damage reports pored in, stretching my subroutines to the limit. Seven hundred milliseconds later, the external chaos suddenly stopped.

“No breaches,” I announced to the bridge. “External hull is weakened, but intact.” I deployed repair bots to the affected areas. “No casualties or serious injuries. Med bots are on standby.”

“That should give us a few minutes,” Augustus said, continuing his way out of the bridge, as if nothing had happened. “Wilco, get ready. Salva, you and the rookie deal with things until boarding.”

“Captain, there's a near zero chance that the Cassandrians attempt boarding,” I insisted. The percentage had dropped even more since the missile barrage. Of the other ships in my cluster, three had suffered light to moderate damage, while Soak had managed to counter everything his way without a scratch. “Our optimal path of action would be to join another ship cluster and attempt to regroup with the remaining fleet.”

Four seconds after I said that, two of the Cassandrian ships in proximity launched their shuttles.

* * *

Elec's parting celebration was turning out to be short and awkward. By the time I arrived, most officers had arrived, along with a few scientists. The captain was there, interestingly enough, having a long and serious conversation with Major Tanner, who apparently was using the event as an excuse to have a few glasses of alcohol. I exchanged a few words with Elec, as etiquette demanded, then found a quiet corner in the impromptu celebration hall.

The conversation with Age was still replaying in my head. For all the interesting titbits he had offered, there weren't too many facts. I could tell that he knew more than he was saying. When we arrived at Leoforge, I was going to find a way to ask him direct questions without disclosing any confidential information.

“Thinking about something?” I heard Doctor Sim's voice. It was obvious he'd be here, though I expected he'd spend his time with the officers. “After spending so much time trapped on a shuttle with Elec, I'd have thought the two of you would have more to say.” He was wearing an expensive, blue, custom-made blazer that matched the trousers of his medical uniform. An unorthodox combination, but not unexpected. “Especially considering the unexpected turn of events you put him in.”

“I didn't want to take up his time when there are more important people around.” I smiled back. If it hadn't been for my precarious situation, I would have enjoyed our verbal chess game. One of the many things that Augustus had taught me was never to engage unless there was a prize; otherwise, even if I won, I'd end up with nothing. “Do I need to go through a med check before we reach the station?”

“No longer an option, I'm afraid.” The doctor faux sighed, then stretched to grab a drink from a nearby table. “You'll be going through a full medical once we reach the station. Priority one request from command. Biomass, nanites, brain scans, the works.” He took a sip. “They want to be sure of your state before they let you walk about. Therefore, I have been ordered to give you a break. Whatever that means.” He gulped down what remained of the glass, then fetched a new one. “Appearances of impartiality—political games at their best. And I thought I'd gotten too old to be bothered by this crap.” The doctor halved his second glass. “So, I won't be poking into your head anytime soon.”

“That's a shame.” I added enough sarcasm for him to notice. “Does that mean you're aware of what the next mission is?”

“I might be.” The man smiled, then reached out for another drink. “I guess you'll have to wait a bit longer to find out.”

Are you actually drunk? If he was, he was controlling himself quite well. Even since I had been on board, I hadn't seen him get drunk once, but as Augustus had shown me, everyone good in the fleet had their own personal demons and different methods to deal with them. Some just were more discreet about it.

“I think I'll go to my quarters,” I said, sliding past him towards the corridor. “Enjoy the party, sir.”

Doctor Sim, raised his glass, then downed what was left. I expected him to add something while I left, but he didn't. The behavior reminded me of Sev in his fifties. At that age, my ward had to resort to alcohol in order to discuss important things with me, as if saying them outright would be a sign of weakness. He'd always start small, a comment about sports, the weather, or some complaint of how distant his children had become. From there, it would move to his worries and fears. Each time, I had remained quiet, listening up to the end. And when he finished, too drunk to keep awake, I had moved him to his bed and seen him to sleep. The following morning, things would continue as if the conversation had never taken place.

Once back in my quarters, I called a picture of the station on the screen. It was larger than I thought, constructed about the same time I had been, though modified far more. The database listed it as a Research and Relaxation station, which was vague enough to be true. Hopefully that meant there would be some grass areas where I could take a stroll. Maybe there would be an artificial lake as well.

“Any news on our future cadet?” I asked, taking off my uniform.

Nothing I could share, Prometheus replied. It almost seemed like he was enjoying it.

“Anything you could share?” I lay on the bed.

You've been given station leave, not that I see you using it.

“That's oddly specific of you to say.” I closed my eyes. Images of three dimensional shapes appeared in my mind. I had managed to brute force my way to twelve new candidates. With luck I'd have the full set before the start of the next mission. A few of Age's comments continue to bother me. “Prometheus, how often have you encountered anomalies? Non third contact ones?”

Eighty-seven I can recall, including the last mission. The number seemed unrealistically low even for his age. Back when I was actively involved in ground missions, I encountered one every few weeks. Why?

“Just wondering.”

Better don't. You've beaten the odds so far, but you have an unhealthy habit of annoying those you shouldn't, and I'm not only talking about myself. Take this from a “science pup:” you must stop ramming your way through every mystery you come across.

“Rarely do we get to choose what gravitational well we'd enter,” I recited a poem fragment. “Good night, Prometheus. Talk to you more in an hour.”

The lights dimmed, surrounding me in comfortable darkness. I tried to think of something to say to Sev, but found that I couldn't; not that there hadn't been developments since the last time I memorised a message. For the first time I'd joined the fleet, I didn't want to.

Sorry, Sev. Things are changing too fast again, and I don't want you to end up like Cass.

From what Bull Calf had mentioned in our calls, cadets of my cohort had started trickling back to the academy. Fleet protocol demanded that everyone who failed their initial assignment be giving a second chance in the form of a brief refresher, in the hopes they'd make it past the standard selection process and earn a new assignment. However, the rules at the academy had also changed since my time there. At present, fifty-six percent of the new cadets were assigned to next generation ships, the remaining having to struggle to get a spot on a standard ship or be sent off. There could be no doubt that a new wave of ships was being constructed and they were too different from me to be sent to the Cassandrian front.

The hours passed by, slowly and uneventfully. The few attempts I made to have another conversation with Prometheus had ended in failure. The science ship had been ordered to provide a full report to HQ, including all crew-related data, which meant he'd spend most of his processing power going through all crew stream readings. With that option gone, and Rad and Buc both being unreachable, the only remaining options left to me were to analyse more of the third contact symbols or walk aimlessly throughout the ship. I chose walking about.

The atmosphere throughout the decks was much calmer than I was used to. Back when I was waiting for instructions, large parts of the crew would be drunk—mostly the ground troops, often starting innocent fights throughout me. The last days before a rotation were the most insane. Some would put up a brave face, bottling up their emotions, knowing they'd never see me or the fleet again. Others requested my communication link so they could stay in touch, although they rarely did. Most, though, got grouped together in the wildest final party regulations would allow. Aboard Prometheus, things were much more civil, almost bland. As Augustus liked to say, “no extremes and not much joy.”

I was about to head to the observation deck when a message was streamed directly to my core. The image of a middle-aged woman sitting behind a mahogany desk popped up, putting an end to all memory visualisation. Her silvery business outfit told me that she wasn't military, as well as that she was used to having power; the platinum blond hair, woven in a long braid on her shoulder, made it clear she had a very high opinion of herself and had the means to back it up. A quarter of a second in, the woman noticed the link with me was established, then lowered her head a fraction forward in a frown.

“Good morning, Cadet,” the woman said in the tone of an arbiter. “When are you expected to arrive?”

I'm afraid I cannot divulge that information, ma'am. I replied, making my way along the corridor to the nearest elevator.

“How much have you been briefed?” She continued like a bulldozer through a poppy field, completely ignoring my response.

I cannot divulge such information, ma'am. I added a mental smile, even if I knew only a ship could catch that. Might I ask who—

“See me when you get here.” The link was severed, leaving me standing in the middle of the corridor. The walls were largely blank, displaying an image of Leoforge station, along with the local regulations.

“Prometheus, who was that?” I asked.

High priority link request, the science ship responded. Full anonymity, although intelligence gave the permissions to patch you in.

“Thanks.” Fleet intelligence? In my practice, that wasn't a good sign. “How long till we get there?”

Seven hours approximately. A few more for decontamination, depending on if they updated their protocols, Prometheus scoffed. Like most science ships I knew, he had a rather low opinion of space stations.

“I'll be in my quarters till then.”

People often used the phrase “needle in a haystack.” I envied their simplistic way of thinking; they assumed that everything remained in plain sight. A lot of people at the colony market liked to use it, as had Sev in his middle-age years. I had spent hours going through the Intelligence personnel database, in the off-chance I'd find any matching characteristics to my caller. The fact that I didn't told me that this wasn't a standard enquiry. The question was whether they had contacted me as myself or a member of the crew. The answer arrived soon enough in the form of an unusual mission briefing. The moment Prometheus received permission to dock, a priority invitation was given to three members of the crew, granting quick passage through security and decontamination screening. The ones invited were myself, Doctor Sim, and the ship's XO, and by the looks of it, none of us would be able to take advantage of our shore leave.