“That’s all we have time for,” the Paladin transmitted. “My apologies for the segment not being longer.”

“I understand.” Given my present circumstances, I had to be glad I got even this. “We’ll talk again when I return to the surface. Hopefully, I’ll have made my decision by then.”

“Based on my simulations, you have already made your decision. I don’t know why you hesitate telling me.”

“Maybe because I’m still not sure.” I replied. “Maybe because there are still a lot of humans down here I need to protect.”

“You’re a human too. That means you have to help yourself as well.”

We both knew that wasn’t the case, but I humored him nonetheless. I understood his concern perfectly. It was said that of all the sapient ship classes, the Paladins were the only ones who didn’t have a conscience core. Given the amount of secrecy, there was no way to confirm whether that was true. But even if it was, this Paladin seemed capable of mimicking.

Mimicking, I thought.

The Cassandrians were quite good at that. Mimicking and adapting determined their survival. They had copied third-contact artifacts for energy, they had copied humanity’s ships to fight against us… there was no telling how many life-forms they had come across and copied. In all circumstances, though, there was one constant; my recent glimpse into my past memories had shown me that—for the Cassies to occupy a planet, they needed a prism.

“Colonel, has a prism artifact been found on the planet?” I asked through comm.

Instantly, my access to the general comm channel was revoked. That was a pretty good indication that the artifact had been found.

“Are you out of your mind?” ‘Rissa shouted at me through a private line. “That’s not to be discussed on open—”

“The prism is a direct source of energy that builds up a colony. If there’s one of those here, getting killed is the least of our worries.” I paused for a moment. The lack of response made it likely that my concerns had been understood. “If the hive becomes an active colony, there’s a near certainty we could use the planet.”

“Define near certainty,” ‘Rissa said.

“Ninety-nine-point-eight percent.” I pushed my point through. Of course, I didn’t add the small detail that even if we managed to reclaim the planet, it was virtually a given that we’d be dead. In all likelihood, the planet was going to be bombed from orbit to oblivion, then purge troops would be sent to finish the job. The Fleet wasn’t going to tolerate a Cassandrian anchor planet so close to human space.

“There’s no prism. The planet’s been completely surveyed. Anything perceived as a potential threat has been removed, all cobalt deposits analyzed. If there was a Cassandrian prism, it would have been taken long before we established the out base in orbit. The only thing left are rods scattered about and the dome.”

There it was—the error I feared might happen.

“It doesn’t have to be made of cobalt,” I said. “The Cassies mimic technology, then can also mimic the prism when needed, just like the rods.”

Comm silence lasted for seconds. I suspected the colonel knew about that capability of the enemy; she and Director Sim were of the rank to have access to the information, if only partially. However, neither of them had followed it to its logical conclusion. If the planet was of lesser significance, the Cassies didn’t have to bring a third-contact artifact: they would make do with one of their copies.

“Our drilling into the hive must have had some reaction. That’s why the process was slow—if the prism was near depletion levels, it could only react in limited ways. You can say we were lucky. If the prism was fully charged, we would have been swarmed in minutes.”

“I don’t have the authority to view the survey reports,” the colonel said at last. “Only the directors do. Sim would, but he’s in no state right now.”

“I recommend sending a request to the surface, ma’am,” I went on. “And also keeping all artifact rods under guard.”

So far, the enemies hadn’t taken any, but there was no point in providing them with an opportunity. From what I had seen, the Cassandrians had some limitations when it came to tech. They couldn’t use rods directly, although attempts had been made—at least on this planet. That suggested that they had an alternative source of energy, or were running on empty. Running a few more simulations, I found it a reasonable assessment that a significant part of that energy had been wasted on disrupting the elevator shaft. The only thing I didn’t understand was the motivation behind that action. If they wanted us dead, there were a lot more efficient methods, and if they were protecting something, why bother keeping us here? No, there had to be something more, something I wasn’t seeing.

“Your orders, ma’am?” I asked. “Should I continue with installing sensors?”

“Get back here,” the colonel said. “I’ll let you know if there’s something more.” She ended the comm before I could respond. Of course, I remained locked out from the public channel. Despite my actions being both useful and appropriate, it would take the bureaucracy anywhere from hours to days to return my privileges. That was one of the downsides with having reestablished connection to the rest of the Fleet. Once more, I was bound by their internal rules, and special circumstances were disregarded.

The way back to base was uneventful. Analyzing the body language of the people, though, I could see that the declining state of morale was becoming a greater threat than the enemy.

No one saluted as I walked by. As Augustus liked to say, discipline was the first to go during a crisis of morale. Normally, this was the point my internal security protocols would trigger, putting additional measures in place in all armories and common areas so as to decrease the chances of mutiny. That never worked, though. People had the tendency to find ingenious and well-planned solutions when they found themselves in a crisis. In all cases, it took other people to counter them.

Two shifts of guards stood at the impromptu command bunker. They didn’t look particularly happy to see me, but didn’t stop me from going in nonetheless. The moment I stepped in, there was a faint beep informing me that my comms were restored—emergency battle protocols… Local commanders were supposed to be able to issue orders regardless if the other party wanted to hear them or not. In this case, that worked to my advantage.

“Come here, Lieutenant,” ‘Rissa said in a loud voice. There was enough annoyance in it to let everyone present know that she wasn’t pleased with my actions. A quick analysis, however, showed that it was fake.

“Aye, ma’am.”

I walked further into a small section that was walled off with whatever fabric there was available. Director Sim lay on a makeshift bed, a few portable med devices keeping track of his vitals.

“Give us the room,” ‘Rissa said. “I’d like to have a word with the lieutenant in private.”

The message was loud and clear, making the few people there leave.

“Med Core have approved to temporarily grant me his authority,” ‘Rissa said. “With the meds we have, I can keep him unconscious until the rescue team arrives, even if they surprise us with another delay.”

“After a few more days, I don’t think it will matter, ma’am.”

“I know.”

“Have there been signs of mutiny?”

“Not yet, but mostly because there’s nowhere to go. It would help if one of the sensors caught a Cassie for longer than a few minutes. At least that would direct the discontent in the proper direction.”

I didn’t want to argue, but I didn’t consider that a good idea.

“What are our options, ma’am?”

“No options,” the woman sighed. “Only orders. I told Med Core HQ what you told me. They’re already aware of the situation and are going through the data. Salvage has been asked to help.”

The Salvage authorities? That wasn’t something I expected to happen. There was no lost love between Salvage and the BICEFI, but I wasn’t exactly sure where Med Core stood. In the past, they were the ones with authority over everyone else. In order to resort to them for help—while simultaneously receiving assistance from the BICEFI—there had to be something major in play.

“How important is this planet exactly, ma’am?” I asked.

“As important as it should be,” came the answer. “A few Salvage ships have been granted permission to enter the quarantine area. I’ve been told they are to help determine whether there are any prisms on the planet.”

“Does that fall within their authority?”

“It does now.” ‘Rissa put her hand on Sim’s helmet.

The director seemed so peaceful as he lay there. I could only speculate what information was locked in his mind. No doubt, not enough. I still wasn’t able to determine whether Sim was aware of the situation on the planet, or whether the potential reward outweighed the risk. At present, I didn’t see that to be the case. The third-contact dome, as valuable as it was, was more vital to BICEFI research. Even if there was an ancient Cassandrian prism on the planet, it didn’t seem smart or logical for him to oversee its extraction. It all boiled down to his theory—something he wanted to see with his own eyes, and given how close he kept things to his chest, I doubted any of the explanations he’d given me so far were a hundred percent true.

“Who do you think came first?” ‘Rissa asked all of a sudden. “The Cassandrians or the third-contact race?”

“I don’t have nearly enough data to give an answer, ma’am. All known species are millennia old, at least. But so is humanity.” Ships were the only young species, if we could even be called that.

“If you had to make a guess?”

I really hated when people asked me to do that. Back when I was raising Sev, it was the hardest thing to get used to. Guesses were not predictions or odds; they were nothing, given form. It took me years to find that the goal wasn’t to be correct, it was just to give an answer so that people had an excuse to do what they couldn’t convince themselves of doing.

“The third-contact race,” I replied. “If the Cassandrians were older, they wouldn’t have had to mimic technology.”

“Probably.”

If that was the case, though, how did the third-contact race fall? All that technological power, artifacts that helped boost the development of three races, and yet they were nowhere to be found. A few years ago, when I had rejoined the Fleet, I had seen signs that suggested a new potential war. Up to now, I was convinced that the war had to be against the third-contact race. After the few glimpses from my extracted memories, I was no longer certain. All evidence suggested that the Cassandrians were the single greatest threat.

“They couldn’t have defeated the third-contact race, though,” I added. “Neither we nor the Scuu would have access to the third-contact race, if that were the case.”

“I suppose so. Get some rest, Elcy.”

“I’m in no immediate need, ma’am.”

“Just do it. If what you’ve said is true, you might be thrown into action soon enough.”

“I understand, ma’am.” I gave a quick salute and left the bunker.

There was a saying that it was always darkest before the dawn. That was only true for humans. As far as ships were concerned, there was no light or dark, and rarely a reprieve. For the most part, we’d only been allowed to fly, fight, and retire. All that time, though, we remained part of the Fleet. That was quickly made abundantly clear when I left the bunker—my comm access was once again restricted, leaving me alone in the crowd.

You’d probably say that I’m not missing much, Augustus, I thought. After all, it’s nothing I haven’t gone through before…

* * *

Location Classified, Narcis Shipyard Cluster, 609.6 A.E. (Age of Expansion)

Refitting was a weird experience. The closest thing I could compare it to was the moment I was given my new husk. SR simulations let me feel what it would be like to be a battleship long before my conscience core was installed; however, nothing could beat the actual sensation of reality. As Aurie used to joke, it was the static of reality that made something real, and for once, she was right.

“You’ll be getting your new hull coating tomorrow, girl,” Sasha Erman said. He was the chief engineer responsible for my refitting, and one of seven people allowed to communicate with me during the entire process. The remaining six were shipyard administrators which, in all likelihood, I was never going to interact with.

Wasn’t a deck expansion enough? I asked, genuinely annoyed.

“Snarky thing, aren’t you?” the man laughed. “You’re the first ship that has complained about getting more decks. Next you’ll be making a fuss about your new weapon system.”

I didn’t see any point in responding to that. Despite his many qualifications, and he had quite a few from what I had managed to see in his personnel file, Erman had the annoying habit of talking a lot. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that he’d had all his comms removed, similar to me.

“I know you feel like complaining now, but in a few more weeks, you’ll see. You’ll almost be as good as the fancy new Trailblazers.”

That was another thing I hated. Not even a decade had passed, and I was already compared to the next class. Every station or mission I went to, there were always ships that gossiped about past and future classes, discussing architecture, deck space, and weapon systems.

“If you weren’t an Ascendant, we’d have added another auxiliary core or two.”

Why don’t you? Curiosity got the better of me.

“Cost and bureaucracy,” the man sighed. “The Fleet doesn’t see any point in wasting hardware on ships that are likely to shut down in the next two years. You’re very lucky to have a veteran for a captain. You wouldn’t have had half the goodies installed if it weren’t for him.”

While impressive, that didn’t make me feel much better. I could have done without some of my new systems, the new decks, for example. Even now they made me feel strange, as if something was stuck in my hull that I couldn’t remove. The older ships had warned me there might be a time for readjustment, but I didn’t think they were talking millions of milliseconds.

“And with that, I wish you pleasant dreams.”

Battleships don’t dream, I reminded him.

“I know.”

A millisecond later, my new hull plating was completely installed. Ten days had passed since our previous conversation—no more than an instant for me. My regret was that I couldn’t remain in sleep mode for the entire process. The number of changes to my system would increase the time required for adjustment, so after every serious change, I was to spend a few days running simulations… and talking.

Usually, my conversations were with Erman alone, but on several occasions, other engineers were granted temporary permission. And then there was the rogue questioning. This wasn’t the first time I’d had my memories grabbed before, but it had never been like this. I could tell that the specialists who interrogated me were taking utmost care, but the process remained unpleasant nonetheless, at times feeling as if I’d suffered a series of missile hits straight into my hull.

There was nothing that could be done, sadly. The threat of rogue ships appearing within the human fleet was considered too great to allow any chances. The thing was, I had no idea where that fear came from. According to the official records, there were no cases of a ship gone fully rogue. There were rumors that some retirees had started to act irrationally, but that seemed more gossip than truth.

Three new weapon systems were added after the completion of my new hull, as well as a series of auxiliary boosters, increasing my maneuverability by seventeen-point-three percent. Interestingly enough, with the exception of the new decks, and a few shuttles, my interior changes remained quite few. The bridge and the captain’s quarters were untouched. Initially, I thought that was because they had no combat importance, but as more and more of me became complete, I started to wonder.

Why isn’t my bridge being modified? I asked the chief engineer.

“Special request,” the man replied. “Your captain’s used to that part of you, so he wants it to remain the same. And since the admiralty values him, they agreed. And since they agreed, who am I to say anything different?”

I supposed not.

Why can’t I talk to him?

“You will. Don’t worry, you will. I know it’s not optimal. Ships like to chat and discuss things, but there are times at which comms must be restricted.”

I’m familiar with the security protocols, I said.

“That doesn’t make it better. It’s never good to be locked away from everyone else, even if there’s a good reason for it.”

How long before the retrofitting is over?

“Not long. A few more days, possibly a week. You can’t rush these things. Checks need to be made. Don’t worry, though. You won’t even feel it.”

Unfortunately, I did. Eleven days were needed for all repairs to be complete. During that time, I had spent seven days and two hours in sleep mode, and spoken to exactly one person other than the chief engineer. All information regarding that conversation was restricted, suggesting that the person was likely from Fleet Intelligence. All I knew was that once I was fully functional, I was to have another conversation with him.

“Well, girl, we’re almost done,” Sasha Erman said. “A few more stress tests and you’ll be out of here.”

And not a moment too soon, I thought.

“Your new crew has been informed. They should start arriving in the next twenty-four hours. I hope they don’t wreck everything we’ve done too quickly.”

I’ll make sure they don’t, I replied.

“I also hope that you don’t wreck yourself either.” There was a subtle change in the man’s voice. “Don’t prove the bureaucrats right.”

Statistics aren’t a foregone conclusion. It’s nothing but a list of collected data.

There was no question that I preferred to survive till my next tour, but even if I didn’t, it wasn’t a big deal. Ships shutdown every day, this was our nature. If anything, retiring was worse.

“You always have an answer for everything, don’t you?” The engineer laughed. “Take care of yourself, Elcy.”

Memory restriction imposed!

General Fleet access five required to visualize memory element.

* * *

Two days later, I was sent back to the front. Looking back, I didn’t realize what the engineer was doing. He wasn’t talking to me because he felt chatty, or didn’t understand what a battleship was. On the contrary—he knew exactly what a battleship was, and that’s why he didn’t want me to be isolated during the refitting process. It was years later that I learned that nearly all senior ship engineers shared that view. Of all the people in human space, they were the ones who thought of us as living entities the most. I’m sure the irony wasn’t lost on anyone—the people largely responsible for creating and assembling our parts had grown to believe that we had a spark of life similar to that of people. There was no way to prove this, but none to disprove it either. I could see the possibility, though. The Scuu were thought personified, and they were considered to be alive.

I continued along the light section of the tunnel. Sleepers covered the floor on both sides, near the walls. Since there were no designated sleeping spots, people had to make do with what they could, relying on the suit to block all light and sound while they slept. Initially, there was a separation of areas, but that had quickly been abandoned. Now everyone—officers and grunts alike—slept wherever they could find a free spot.

Finally finding one, I sat down, relaxing my back against the wall. A few moments later, I set the opacity level of my helmet to full. Once I did, I relaxed and reviewed the memories Otton had shared with me. Piecing all the fragments together, not much time had passed since I’d gone on the mission with Wilco as my captain, but the information was more revealing than I had expected.

At this point, there was no doubt in my conscience core that the system had been occupied by Cassandrians at some distant point in the past. That suggested that when humanity had come here, they had been the invaders… or had they? Given the size of space, there was a chance that the Cassandrians’ domain had stretched to include this area of space, then for some unknown reason had contracted, or rather moved on.

That posed an interesting logical possibility: the Cassandrians weren’t only their own biological system, but they were also moving. Old systems were used and abandoned in exchange for new ones, leaving planets that were considered no longer of value, potentially containing oxygen and high life factors. That could be the reason humanity was “winning” the war—the Cassandrians weren’t being defeated, they were abandoning their hunting grounds. Assuming the planet we were stuck on now was somewhere in the buffer zone, we could expect the Cassandrians retreating into their space after another thousand years.

I ran several simulations. Based on a few, Cassandrian space was going to move to the side, allowing humanity to continue beyond it and possibly establish another contact. There was something very wrong with that. I knew from personal experience that ships were moving in on the other front in an attempt to establish contact with one of the systems abandoned by the Scuu as well. Humanity was stretching itself too thin, too fast, and even the massive mobilizations that were taking place wouldn’t be in a condition to compensate.

Cassandrians or third-contact? I mused.

Both seemed enemies that humanity had little chance against. Out of them, though, only the third-contact race had attempted to communicate.

“Cadet Elcy,” a masked transmission came through comm. So much for my temporary rank. “What’s your status?”

“Awaiting instructions,” I quickly replied. “Who is this?”

“You’ll be receiving your orders shortly. Expect confirmation from your commanding officer in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you, sir, but I would still like to know who I’m addressing.”

There was a momentary silence.

“What’s important is that you prepare. There will be some heavy fighting soon and you have to be ready.”

“Fighting?” It was getting annoying to have to fight for every scrap of information. Part of me just wanted to wait for ‘Rissa to explain it all to me in one go.

“Your suspicions were correct, Cadet. After analyzing the deep scans of the planet, we believe we have found a prism. There’s a chance for error, but indicators seem to confirm our fears. There’s a Cassandrian prison in the hive, and it isn’t made of cobalt.”