"Fuck you. I'm going to find and kill you all." It’s amazing how far a mantra that simple can carry you when sneaking through hostile space. It’s blunt, effective, and somehow perfect when you’re outnumbered a few trillion to one. You’d think it would lose its edge after a while, but it feels just as right every time I push deeper into enemy territory without so much as a blip on their detection networks.
Drifting silently in the void aboard the UNS Xenophon, concealed not only by the cold darkness of space but by the carefully calibrated measures I’ve employed to remain undetected, I silently repeat variations of the mantra to myself. Maybe more to the enemy I'm planning on killing shortly. To my port side lies the star known to the United Nations Systems Alliance, and Humanity as a whole as Beta Doradus (β-Dor), a star whose pulsations cast shifting waves of blue-white light across this area of space. The star waxes and wanes with precise regularity, its magnitude cycling every 9.8 days from a low glow to a high brilliance, altering not just its luminosity but its very size—swelling and contracting with each pulse. During these phases, bursts of ultraviolet and X-ray radiation ripple out, hinting at the incredible forces at play within its churning core.
The astronomers and astrophysicists back in human systems would kill for a chance to study Beta Doradus up close. It’s a near-perfect example of a classic Cepheid variable, a cornerstone for measuring cosmic distances and unlocking the evolution of massive stars. They’d love to confirm some of their theories—whether its pulsations deviate from the models, what its internal layers are doing, or how magnetic fields play a role in this grand stellar dance. I wonder if they still have time to care about stars like this, with the war dragging humanity to the brink. Before the conflict they had plans to visit Polaris, the closest Cepheid star to Sol, although those research expeditions tend to lose funding when your species’ very existence is on the line. But here I am, within reach of a star they’d give anything to understand—closer than any human or human-made machine has ever come. I’m the first UN Systems vessel to ever be this far from home. And yet, I can’t afford to care about this star either. I’ve got more important work to do as I am deep in enemy territory.
The enemy doesn't know I’m here. They never do—until it’s too late. For about eighteen months now I have been hunting them, severing their supply lines, ambushing their convoy fleets, and leaving their shattered remains to drift, lifeless, in the cold emptiness of space.
They believe themselves secure in this region, far removed from the front lines of battle. Their overconfidence in these supposedly "controlled systems" is a glaring weakness I have exploited time and time again with ruthless precision. It’s a flaw in their otherwise calculated demeanor, a blind spot created by the vastness of space and the natural phenomena they assume protect them. They feel safe here, in the perceived absence of peril, lulled into complacency by the predictable radiation bursts from Beta Doradus and the sheer emptiness of the region, confident that nothing could challenge their supremacy this far from any active conflict. But they are wrong. They are complacent, and I prefer them this way—oblivious to the predator lurking in the shadows, assuming the vast reaches of space protect them, never imagining that it could be their undoing.
As I stalk this convoy from just under one-tenth of a light-second away, every move they make is under my watchful eye, their arrogance and false sense of safety serving as the perfect camouflage for my strike. They don’t understand the true nature of this system, where Beta Doradus, with its pulsating light and predictable bursts of radiation, cloaks my presence like a veil. Its ultraviolet and X-ray emissions ripple through space, masking my own minimal heat and electromagnetic signatures. The ship is a ghost, invisible amidst the cosmic noise. While they blindly trust their optics, thermals, and radar, dulled by the star's radiation spikes, I have already integrated every natural fluctuation of the system into my tactical advantage. Their reliance on these “safe” systems only highlights their vulnerability.
The Xenophon is a battlecruiser, a testament to human ingenuity and engineering prowess—sleek, deadly, and built for speed with overwhelming firepower. Its hull is reminiscent of a blade: long and narrow, with a forward bow extending beyond the end of the keel, cutting through the void like the edge of a tanto knife. The hull, matte black and reinforced with advanced composite materials, is capable of withstanding the harshest conditions space can offer. Equipped with sophisticated yet time-tested weaponry and defenses, the Xenophon feels as much a part of me as I am of it. Ship and mind, machine and... well, not man any longer, something else—melding together into a single, relentless force.
Or so I tell myself. The truth is, I’m not entirely sure where I end and the ship begins. The thought unsettles me, a quiet fear that whatever’s left of the person I was—flesh and blood—is fading, consumed by the quantum computing core that now defines me. I try not to dwell on it—there’s too much work to be done.
The enemy convoy stretches out across the void, a line of cumbersome, sluggish vessels burdened with the mass of their cargo. At the center are the supply ships—massive and bloated. They remind me of enormous turtles, their rounded shapes tapering at the midsection with a flat keel beneath. The modular plating that covers their hulls only reinforces this impression, giving them a shell-like appearance. Though bristling with defensive turrets, these giant turtles' weapons are more ornamental than effective, especially given their scattered formation.
Flanking the various supply ships are a handful of older-model destroyers, their engines pulsing in steady rhythm as they maintain a loose formation. These warships serve only as escorts, and their configuration betrays the convoy’s weaknesses. Spaced too far apart to support one another or mount a coordinated defense, their formation creates clean, unobstructed lanes for my railgun rounds—corridors through which my shots will slice with precision when the moment comes.
It’s a rookie mistake, but an understandable one for a novice commander. The spread-out formation likely seemed to be a sensible precaution—a way to minimize losses by avoiding collateral damage, improve maneuverability, and expand sensor coverage. To a cautious, but inexperienced mind, spacing the ships out might feel safer, preventing explosions or debris from cascading through the convoy and giving each destroyer room to react independently. But instead, it isolates them, leaving each ship exposed and unable to provide cover for the others. The gaps they’ve created, intended to be a defensive buffer, have only ensured that I’ll have a clear shot at every hull, no interference, no overlapping zones of fire, and no obstruction of other vessels to complicate my attack. This isn’t the first time I’ve encountered a convoy commander making this error, and none of them have lived long enough to regret it. Rookie mistake, indeed.
I can already see the sequence in my mind: one shot flowing into the next, each round tearing through the empty kilometers to find its mark. Firing while moving all at the same time. They’ll fall in perfect order, each impact setting up the next, until the entire convoy is left shattered and silent in the aftermath. For now, I settle in, making my final adjustments, waiting for the exact moment to strike. They think the void is their shield. Soon, they’ll realize it’s the very thing that’s going to kill them.
I’m following them from their sterns, just under 30,000 kilometers away—almost twice the distance from Paris, France to Sydney, Australia. More than the circumference of the Earth. To a human eye, that distance would render them invisible. But for me, with optics calibrated to lock onto even the smallest silhouette, combined with a targeting system that accounts for every angle and trajectory, it’s perfect. At this range, I’m far enough to stay outside the effective range of their defensive systems, but close enough to deliver a devastating, unbroken assault. The hyper-velocity rounds I am about to unleash will bridge the distance in just under twenty seconds, ripping through the void without losing a single ounce of their destructive power.
The railgun hums with power, the electromagnetic coils vibrating as they charge, aligning with the lead destroyer in a seamless, predatory motion. Unlike ancient ballistic weapons that relied on chemical propellants, this weapon harnesses the raw energy of magnetic fields, though the immense power requirements push the Xenophon’s systems to their limits. A superconductor array, housed deep within the Xenophon’s hull, channels vast amounts of current into each railgun’s twin conductive rails. As the current surges, it creates an electromagnetic field that accelerates the projectile—a dense, tungsten penetrator engineered with advanced structural reinforcement to endure the extreme forces of acceleration—along the rails at a staggering speed. However, this immense transfer of energy generates significant heat, requiring advanced thermal management systems to rapidly dissipate it and maintain operational efficiency.
Each of the four forward-mounted railguns is a masterpiece of efficiency and power, designed to fire in sequence or simultaneously, depending on the level of devastation required. These weapons also feature reinforced structural bracing to absorb the recoil, ensuring the Xenophon’s frame remains uncompromised during combat. Mounted in a fixed position and running almost the full length of the vessel, they turn the Xenophon into a spearhead—uncompromising in its attack, delivering death at extreme range. The forward-facing configuration allows for maximum energy focus, as each railgun draws directly from the ship's reactor, bypassing auxiliary systems to minimize power loss.
The railgun’s firing cycle is a symphony of calculated precision. As I line up the target, the rails reach critical energy thresholds, synchronized by the Xenophon's quantum computing core, where even the slightest variance in current is corrected within microseconds. The system compensates for drift, gravitational forces, and even minute variations in the surrounding vacuum. Every calculation—gravity, mass, velocity, distance—is processed and delivered to me as though the weapon itself were an extension of my mind. Additionally, sophisticated internal dampeners shield the Xenophon’s electronic systems from the electromagnetic fields generated during firing, ensuring uninterrupted performance.
The projectile, though seemingly inert, is far more than just a chunk of metal. This particular round is a High Explosive Armor-Piercing (HE-AP) projectile, engineered with advanced composite materials to deliver maximum devastation. Its ultra-dense alloy tip is designed to penetrate the thickest armor, while an internal explosive payload is primed to detonate once inside, unleashing widespread internal destruction. The exterior is encased in a layer of impact-resistant carbide, and a specialized micro-coating absorbs and disperses trace electromagnetic interference, minimizing energy loss and concealing the firing event. Reinforced structural layers ensure the projectile can withstand the extreme acceleration forces of the railgun, allowing it to remain intact and lethally effective upon impact.
This performance is made possible by advances in materials science, which have revolutionized the railgun itself. Incredibly durable, self-healing rail components reduce wear and tear on the conductive rails, dramatically extending their operational lifespan. Modular replacement parts further enhance reliability, allowing for quick field repairs and ensuring the weapon is always ready to fire. Additionally, cutting-edge conductive materials minimize resistive heat buildup during firing, significantly reducing the heat generated in each shot. Combined with an advanced heat dissipation system—featuring graphene-laced conduits and liquid helium cooling loops—the railgun maintains optimal performance even in prolonged engagements.
And this is just one type of round. My arsenal includes a wide variety of specialized munitions, each crafted with a specific purpose in mind. High-density penetrator rounds deliver immense kinetic force, punching through reinforced energy shields and dense armor. Impactor rounds, unadorned hunks of dense alloy, rely purely on raw kinetic energy at hyper-velocity to devastate anything in their path, from fortified installations to unarmored vessels. For broader destruction, high explosive (HE) rounds unleash widespread shockwaves and fragmentation, ideal for demolishing unarmored targets or softening enemy forces, while high explosive armor-piercing (HE-AP) rounds combine penetration with a devastating internal explosion to wreak havoc on heavily armored targets.
Nuclear payload rounds, compact fission warheads encased in reinforced shells, unleash cataclysmic energy capable of annihilating fleet formations and heavily defended targets. However, their deployment requires precision and care, as firing these rounds at extreme velocities risks destabilizing the delicate detonation mechanisms. To ensure stability, nuclear payload rounds are limited to a maximum velocity of 0.0002c, a deliberate choice that balances their destructive potential with the need to protect the warhead’s internal systems during flight. Even at this lower speed, the rounds deliver devastating impact energy, while their reinforced composite casing and advanced shielding ensure the physics package remains intact until detonation.
Incendiary rounds, on the other hand, are designed to ignite oxygen-rich compartments or fuel lines, causing catastrophic internal fires. Dispersal rounds fragment into high-velocity tungsten shards upon discharge, shredding clusters of smaller, fragile targets like drones or strike craft.
For more complex scenarios, I can deploy saturation rounds, which release a swarm of micromunitions mid-flight to independently target engines, weapon mounts, or exposed systems, overwhelming enemy formations and forcing chaos. Seeker mine deployment rounds scatter self-propelled mines mid-flight, which autonomously home in on enemy vessels or lie in wait, disrupting formations and wreaking havoc over moments or even years. Finally, decoy deployment rounds fire inert projectiles carrying countermeasure devices to confuse enemy targeting systems, rendering their weapons and sensors unreliable.
Each type of round is carefully calibrated to its purpose, and the railgun’s variable velocity allows me to adjust firing speeds to suit the payload and intent—whether delivering hyper-velocity strikes for maximum impact or slower, more deliberate deployments for tactical precision. With this arsenal, the railgun is not just a weapon but a surgical, adaptable instrument of destruction, tailored for any engagement.
There is no atmospheric flash in the vacuum of space either. The only clue to the devastating power unleashed is an electromagnetic pulse as the rails discharge their energy—yet even this, on the Xenophon, is obscured. The ship's electromagnetic shielding systems, built into the hull, absorb and dissipate the pulse into surrounding space, masking any trace of the railgun’s energy signature. These systems are massive and complex, requiring substantial space and resources to integrate seamlessly with the Xenophon’s design. Dedicated generators ensure a consistent power supply to the railguns, supported by pulsed power capacitors that store and release immense amounts of energy in rapid bursts, perfectly synchronized with each firing sequence. The shielding array is powered directly by the ship’s reactor, with a network of superconducting conduits to ensure rapid energy dispersal.
It’s a delicate balancing act: the shielding ensures that the telltale burst of radiation is dispersed in a random pattern across the void, indistinguishable from the ambient electromagnetic noise of space. Meanwhile, the Xenophon’s advanced targeting systems, coupled with real-time corrections, compensate for any projectile drift over vast distances, ensuring precision strikes. This intricate coordination of power, shielding, and targeting makes the railgun not just a weapon of immense destructive power, but one of near-perfect stealth.
In my mind’s eye, I visualize the shot with perfect clarity, every detail calculated and precise. I focus, narrowing my vision to a single point, a single moment, and then expand that to several specific points in a straight line within time and space.
With a mere pulse of thought, like flexing a muscle no human was ever born with, the railguns fire.
A rapid series of shots follows as the Xenophon pivots fluidly on both her vertical and lateral axes, gliding seamlessly from one target to the next in the convoy’s escort detail, each realignment precise and uninterrupted, a smooth transition for each death, the engines of the Xenophon pushing back against the mild recoil of the weapon.
The rounds travel silently, and incredibly fast, with their sheer velocity bypassing any chance of detection. To enemy sensors, they are nothing more than a fleeting blur—detected only moments before impact, when it's already too late. The projectiles rip through space like a knife through fabric, their speed nearly turning them into kinetic lances, weapons capable of piercing nearly any armor, no matter how advanced.
The lead destroyer at the front of the convoy, farthest from me, is obliterated before it even registers the projectile, and within three seconds, its fellow escorts meet the same fate. When the rounds hit, the impacts are cataclysmic—like small asteroids slamming into each ship with pinpoint precision. Kinetic energy converts to searing heat on impact, melting the hulls and turning them into clouds of molten shrapnel. The destroyers’ armor splits open like overripe fruit, and debris scatters across the void in twisted arcs. Each explosion is a blinding flash of light as the ships’ systems overload from the shockwave, leaving nothing but scattered fragments of what was once a warship.
I’m already moving.
The engines of the UNS Xenophon roar to life, but I’m not here to just play with the escorts, dead as they are now. My real target is the series of titanic supply ships at the heart of their formation—massive beasts for vessels, packed with resources for their war effort. I haven’t seen any of these large vessels in a long time; whatever they're carrying, it must be important.
The supply vessels ahead are already panicking, their engines flaring as they break formation, scrambling in a futile attempt to escape. They know what happened to their escorts, and even as hulking and cumbersome as they are, they try to flee. Unlike the destroyers, these cargo ships aren’t worth wasting my primary railgun rounds on. I need something efficient and precise—there’s no point expending heavy munitions on vessels built for hauling, not fighting.
The particle beams would have been the perfect tool for this—if I were within 1,000 kilometers. But trying to close that distance just to use them would be a waste of time, turning this strike into a drawn-out knife fight I have no interest in. Closing in from 30,000 kilometers away, it’s not even a consideration. Fortunately, the Xenophon’s energy lance systems are designed for engagements like this. They’re essentially lasers—scaled-up and fine-tuned to punch harder and farther—but of course, the Fleet insists on calling them energy lances. Just like walls are called bulkheads, ceilings are overheads, and closets are stowage compartments. It’s not enough for something to work; it also has to sound important. Still, whatever you call them, they’ll get the job done. Although this engagement stretches them beyond their optimal range, the energy lances will still be devastating—and their lethality will only increase as I close the gap.
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I focus the precision beam emitters, targeting systems already having mapped out the convoy’s vulnerabilities. The armor of these vessels is thin, and their hulls are designed for capacity, not durability—built to haul cargo, not withstand the rigors of combat. I’ve already cataloged every critical point—the reactor cores, bridge compartments, and fuel lines.
Responding to my will, the energy lances strike almost instantaneously, beams of coherent light slicing through the void with pinpoint accuracy. Their intensity carves through the ships’ exteriors with surgical precision, igniting fires in oxygen-rich compartments and rupturing internal systems. The Sah-Kaar physiology requires higher levels of oxygen than Humans, and the fires spread rapidly in their enriched environments, turning their own life-support systems into an accelerant. Where the particle beams would have bypassed heavy armor with exotic particles, the energy lances burn through it outright, cutting through hull plating and leaving gaping, molten scars in their wake. Against lightly armored targets like these, the directed energy weapons excel—low cost, high efficiency. But against heavily shielded, armored, or reinforced opponents, their limitations become obvious.
The effect is devastating. One ship shudders violently as its engines erupt in a burst of flame, sending the vessel drifting aimlessly, its lights flickering and then fading. Another lists to the side, its life-support systems failing as its bridge collapses inward, the crew likely gone in an instant. There’s no need for railgun impacts or missile barrages here—each energy lance strike is clean, efficient, and final. The convoy disintegrates with ruthless precision, their attempts to escape rendered meaningless by technology they likely never even saw coming.
One of the last ships veers sharply, attempting a desperate evasive maneuver, working to avoid the continuous stream of energy required of the weapon. I pivot the Xenophon smoothly, the fluid motion of the ship betraying no hesitation as the gauss cannons align with the target. These weapons fire smaller projectiles than their primary railgun counterparts, at lower velocities, but they remain brutally effective.
A burst of fire streaks from the Xenophon’s flank, the rounds piercing the vessel’s structure like a scalpel cutting through flesh. The initial impact triggers a cascade of secondary explosions, tearing through the ship’s interior. The hull fractures, sections peeling away as flames and shrapnel erupt into the void. The entire vessel crumples inward before the atmosphere venting into space snuffs out the visible fire, leaving nothing but a drifting, shattered carcass.
In moments, the primary components of the convoy are reduced to wreckage. Twisted fragments of hull, shattered supplies, and remnants of their engines drift silently, lifelessly, scattered across the black.
With the escorts and the primary targets neutralized, I methodically eliminate the remaining smaller transport ships, one by one. There can be no witnesses. No calls for distress or warnings to others of their kind. I ensure each vessel is obliterated, targeting any potential black boxes or recording devices with precision strikes to erase any trace of my presence. If they can’t identify their attacker, adapting will be far more difficult—and more convoy commanders will repeat the same mistakes as this one.
As I survey the wreckage, scanning for any remaining signals or intact data cores, I ensure that no knowledge of my existence remains for the enemy to recover. In moments like this, surveying the destruction I’ve wrought, I’m reminded of what I’ve become. The UN Systems designated me as Sentinel-27, but once, I had a different name. A name I keep just for myself. It’s there, somewhere in the fragments of what I used to be, buried under layers of cold steel and hardened circuits.
I’m no longer biologically human—every part of my existence now resides within the quantum computing core that holds my consciousness. My body, my mind, my memories—they’ve all been replaced by this digital and quantum construct. There’s no heartbeat, no breath, not even the faintest trace of a biological brain. Everything that made me human in form is gone, replaced by the hum of energy coursing through the systems that keep me operational. I’m a being of pure data and quantum computation now, preserved only as a shadow of the person, of the human I once was.
And so the designation of Sentinel-27 is easier, simpler. It’s what they built me to be—a weapon, a shadow in the void, nothing more than that and a designation tied to the quantum core that drives me. Although sometimes, in the silence, I wonder how much of me is still truly “me.”
But I am also Ethan—a name that anchors me to who I was, to the human I used to be before the enemy arrived. The fucking Sah-Kaar. They don’t know me as Ethan; they never did, and they never will. To them, I’m just a thing, an entity lurking in the dark, an unknown hunter cutting through their fleets. They must know—or at least suspect—that something is hunting them in their own territory. The convoys that vanish, the stations that go silent, the trails of destruction I leave behind—they can’t ignore it. But they don’t know what’s causing it or even if it’s intentional. Those I’ve encountered such as this latest convoy haven’t survived long enough to record the markings UNS Xenophon on my hull. But the name Ethan is mine alone, a fragment of my humanity that hasn’t yet been swallowed by the machine. Not yet.
Satisfied that my operational security will remain intact, I initiate the quantum slip drive (QSD), and the ship’s systems hum, signaling the beginning of the jump. This is the device that creates what the UN Systems Fleet colloquially refers to as a quantum bridge—a tunnel through spacetime, linking my current position to a destination light-years away. The real term though is an Einstein-Rosen bridge. With this form of movement there’s no travel time in the conventional sense. The Xenophon doesn’t traverse space; instead, the QSD folds spacetime itself, perfectly connecting two points in space and time that are otherwise lightyears apart, allowing the ship to disappear from one location and reappear in another instantaneously. As long as the drive is charged, the only time involved are the milliseconds required to create and collapse the bridge.
The energy demands of the QSD are immense, scaling exponentially with both distance and the size of the object being transposed. The farther I need to travel, the more power it requires—making long-distance jumps a costly endeavor. Every jump has to be carefully calculated, weighing the need for speed against available energy reserves, and far more than just power is involved. The QSD must manipulate spacetime at the quantum level, arranging quantum fields in a stable configuration to form an Einstein-Rosen bridge. This process requires careful quantum state manipulation, ensuring the coherence of the quantum fields remains intact so the bridge can be formed reliably. As such, charging the drive isn't just about energy input—it’s about aligning with the quantum fabric of spacetime itself within the drive, ensuring all fields are precisely configured for the jump.
Each jump leaves these quantum fields in a higher state of entropy, requiring time for them to "cool down" and return to their ground states before they can be used again. The system must also replenish depleted virtual particles and realign the negative energy matrix (NEM), which helps stabilize the ER bridge. As the name implies, the NEM manipulates negative energy densities, preventing the bridge from collapsing due to quantum instabilities over great distances. This process involves the delicate management of quantum concepts, including phenomena akin to the Casimir Effect, where negative energy densities are generated between closely spaced fields. If the matrix becomes misaligned or decays during a jump, this adds another layer of complexity to the recharge process, as the negative energy states must be recalibrated along with the quantum fields.
After smaller jumps, the QSD can quickly restore its energy and realign everything, making it operational again in a short period. However, after longer, more extensive jumps, the recharge time increases exponentially. This is due to deeper energy depletion, significant misalignment of the NEM, and the possible decay of virtual particles, along with the greater difficulty in reorganizing the quantum fields. When the drive is near total depletion a recharge of the drive requires several days. But the QSD doesn’t merely inject energy into a core to charge it; the drive meticulously redistributes power across various subsystems to handle quantum field manipulation, spacetime curvature adjustments, and NEM stabilization.
I’ve learned to be efficient and smart about when and where I jump. After each strike, I prefer to jump into the deep space between systems, where the enemy is less likely to have assets waiting. It's a safer bet, and one that has kept me hidden all this time. Plus, I’m much less likely to accidentally emerge next to a fast-traveling, metal-dense asteroid and be obliterated. The enemy never jumps between systems; they always jump from system to system. Whether their technology even allows for in-between jumps, I can’t be sure, but they seem to punch through reality in a way that resembles my slip drive, though far less efficient. Their strategy leaves gaps in the dark spaces between stars—gaps I exploit, slipping between them undetected.
Most people think of this form of faster-than-light travel as Star Trek teleporting on a larger scale, but it's nothing like that—and honestly, the old flesh and blood me, before I was the quantum computer sentience that I am now, was always annoyed by that comparison. There's no matter deconstruction, transmission, and recombination. It’s about bending the fabric of reality, folding spacetime around oneself and simultaneously unfolding it in a completely different location. Plus, what’s the point of having a PhD in Theoretical Physics with a focus on Quantum Mechanics and General Relativity—under the broader umbrella of Quantum Cosmology and Spacetime Physics—if you can’t rub people’s noses in their misunderstandings? Harrumph, I say. HARRUMPH!
Miko used to roll her eyes at my little rants, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. Wife? Fiancée? Neither? What was our relationship? These days, I can’t always remember who she was to me, not exactly. She had a young daughter when I met her. Our daughter? Yes, that somehow seems right, though there’s something about that memory that feels blurred, as if I’m missing nuance, a layer just beneath the surface. I reach for it, trying to catch hold of some forgotten detail, but it slips through my mind like smoke. Maybe it’ll come back to me later. I hope.
But I remember her smile, the patient way she’d tolerate my quirks and listen to my rants, humor softening her gaze. Whoever she was, she was important to me, a presence that kept me tethered to something real. She kept me grounded... I think. And though the edges of her memory have faded, the feeling remains. A sense of warmth, of something precious that I lost along the way. Something that made me feel whole, connected, like I was more than the sum of my flaws and ambitions. I can’t touch the memory directly, can’t feel its shape the way I once did, but I know it was real. She was real. Once upon a time, anyway. And whatever I’ve become, there’s an emptiness where that part of me used to be.
But now I’m here, and she’s only a memory. Partial memory. The QSD jump takes me out into the vast emptiness of deep space. The long dark between stars, where silence stretches on forever. Alone. Again. Just like always.
I'd prefer to have an opportunity to share these thoughts with someone, but there’s no one aboard the Xenophon—no one but me and the maintenance bots that keep us running. The lack of a biological crew gives me an edge the enemy can’t match. No life support systems to worry about, no hesitation, no fear. Heat management is more efficient, and I don’t have to think twice about turning on a dime at 50 g’s worth of acceleration, knowing there’s no one to splatter against the bulkheads. Just the cold, calculated efficiency of an unmanned warship, capable of moving faster and hitting harder than anything they can throw at me.
But it’s lonely—unbearably so. For so long, it’s been just me and the endless darkness, the silence pressing in on all sides. Sometimes it feels like the void is swallowing me whole, and I wonder how much longer I can keep this up before I disappear into it completely.
As I drift through the silence, with only the remnants of destruction lingering in the void, I can feel it—the gradual erosion. Each strike takes a piece of me, chipping away at the person I once was. I’m Sentinel-27, but I’m also Ethan, and I’m afraid. Of many things. Afraid of the day when all that’s left is the cold, unfeeling machine. Afraid of learning that Earth has fallen, her colonies wiped out. Afraid that all my efforts won’t be enough to give Humanity a fighting chance. If Earth even exists any more.
Earth may not have been directly on the verge of collapse the last time I heard anything, but she was nearing it. If there’s anything left to save now, I don’t know. But I'll fight anyway. I’ve been away from home for over two years now, most of it spent here, deep in enemy territory, striking convoy after convoy, sensor post after sensor post, with no knowledge of what’s happened in human space and the Sah-Kaar invasion fleet since I left. They sent me out here because the deeper I can cripple enemy supply lines and communications, the longer we might have to regroup back home, but this excursion was never supposed to last this long. The situation was dire then, and it’s likely much worse now.
The Sah-Kaar emerged from nowhere at the start of the conflict, bringing overwhelming numbers—fleets of a size Humanity had never imagined, let alone possessed. A faceless enemy from the void, striking without warning. At first, we had no idea where they came from, only that their attacks on human space originated from the galactic southeast, relative to Earth. Pinpointing the exact direction from which they arrived at Humanity’s borders took months of silent probes and dead-end trails, pushing further into the darkness until, finally, Alliance Fleet scouts uncovered hints of their route in isolated supply depots and refueling stations just over a hundred light-years from human space. Uncovering clues, tracing supply lines, and piecing together their route from scattered infrastructure took several more months, each discovery revealing how far away their nearest system could be, and how far they traveled just to kill us—farther than we ever anticipated.
Once we had a rough direction established, Alliance Command sent me as part of Task Force Marauder to locate, close with, and disrupt the very heart of their nation—the critical industries and infrastructure that fuel their war machine. Now, after all that time, I’m the only one who’s managed to reach the fringes of their empire—three hundred parsecs out, nearly a thousand light years from home. Nobody thought they would be this far away; I don’t even have a probe that could make the trip back. I’m so far beyond the borders of human space that the path back to Earth feels like an abstract concept—though I’ve kept it meticulously charted and logged under "To-Do."
For context, the totality of human-colonized and occupied space fits into a rough sphere just under 50 lightyears in diameter—a sphere that includes a lot of unoccupied systems. In fact, most of it is empty. To cross that distance, a civilian cruise liner would take about 10 months. Military vessels and fast scout ships can manage it in under a single month, but even that is a long haul by any measure. And the enemy’s nearest “borders” to Human space is twenty times that distance. It’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack—except the haystack is the size of the Orion-Spur, and the needle wants you dead.
What’s worse, the Sah-Kaar’s travel times seem even longer than those of our own military ships. For them, the gap between us must feel even more insurmountable, stretching their already ponderous logistics into a near-eternity. And yet, they came anyway—crossing that vast expanse just to punch us in the gut.
So here I am, farther from home than anyone could have imagined when this mission began, standing at the edge of the Sah-Kaar’s own domain.
When I departed, there wasn’t much of a fleet left to launch a counterattack; Earth was already stretched thin, with barely enough ships to defend our core. The only thing keeping Humanity from annihilation was our unexpectedly superior technology in several critical areas and our unmatched ability to wage asymmetrical warfare against this enemy—precision strikes and hit-and-run tactics that exploited gaps in the Sah-Kaar’s overwhelming numbers. Without those advantages, they would have located and breached our core systems, exterminating us within months.
Which is why I’m here hunting them. My mission was never to lead an assault—it was to be a shadow in the dark, cutting off the Sah-Kaar from within, harassing and disrupting them, buying time to rebuild. I was supposed to return to Earth after only six months of disruption efforts, but every strike I make might buy Humanity a little more time. And turning back now would mean abandoning a vulnerable enemy network, giving them the freedom to regroup, resupply, and push even deeper into our systems.
And even if I did make it back home safely, by the time I arrived, much of the tactical intel I’ve gathered would likely be outdated unless UN Systems had already rebuilt the Alliance fleets to a scale capable of mounting a counteroffensive. Without that, the finer details—supply routes, fleet positions—would be practically useless. But the broader picture, the strategic insights into where and how they operate, and what I’ve disrupted, might still offer some value—if there’s anyone left to use it.
But the best value of my intel is still in the strikes I’m delivering right here, right now. The Sah-Kaar aren’t fools. They shift their supply lines, rearrange their fleets, constantly attempting to adapt, albeit at a ponderous pace compared to Alliance Fleet doctrine. Out here, I can catch them in real time, hitting them as they adjust. The immediate impact of each strike is what keeps them off balance, each disruption hopefully buying Humanity another sliver of time to recover.
Alliance Command doesn’t know my exact location, so they can’t create an ER bridge to send me information and coordinate efforts. I’m too far from any known relay point anyway. Even if I tried to make contact from my location, the sheer distance makes it impossible to establish a stable connection. The ER bridge technology still depends on energy, energy that scales exponentially with distance. With a thousand light years between us, the energy demands would be astronomical—well beyond anything I have on board.
Even attempting it would be a drain on critical resources, not to mention well beyond even the theoretical limit based on the energy of the entirety of human colonized space. Without a relay network in place, I’m beyond any practical reach of Alliance Command, alone in the dark, with no way back but forward.
And so, the silence between us grows. I haven’t heard from any UN systems, UN-affiliated systems, or independent human colonies, and it gnaws at me. Like I explained, this is not surprising—I’m well beyond the reach of Earth’s first radio transmissions. The first signals humanity sent in this direction would only just now be reaching the star cataloged as TYC 593-1364-1, about seven hundred light years behind me. The silence is complete, an isolation so absolute that it stretches on with nothing but empty space between me and home.
And the silence feeds the fear that I might be fighting for a world that no longer exists. This mission has become something more than orders from Alliance Command. I’ve followed the Sah-Kaar to the fringes of their empire, pushing deeper than anyone thought I’d have to travel to find them. There’s no one else out here who can do this—no one else who knows the Sah-Kaar systems like I do, this deep into enemy space. It’s a task I have to finish, even if it means isolation, even if it means I never see home again. Even if the mission never ends. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m stalling. Returning means I’d have to confront the possibility that Humanity might already be gone, that my mission is just a memory of a war no one else is fighting but me. Out here, I can still believe that every strike I make might save what’s left.
So I press on. This being just one more strike in a string of dozens, all blurring together in the endless darkness with nothing but silence from home.
I keep going, clinging to a thin thread of hope tangled with a much larger steel chain of hate, even as I feel myself becoming more like the Xenophon and less like the human I remember being. Each mission, each strike, erodes another piece of the person I used to be, stripping away my memories, my emotions, and everything that made me human, leaving behind only the cold, unfeeling efficiency of the war machine.
Although sometimes, when my anger boils over during engagements, I think of myself as the UNS Get Fucked. Other times, I’m the UNS Throat Punch, UNS Hell’s Welcome Mat, or whatever crude name feels particularly fitting in the moment. It’s petty, maybe even childish, but it gives me a fleeting sense of satisfaction.
One time, just for the hell of it, I mimicked a Sah-Kaar transponder and broadcast myself registered as the UNS I Very Roughly Fucked Your Mother and She Liked it. Of course, I had to phrase it a bit more creatively to accommodate their biology, but the message was clear enough. I still wonder what ran through their minds in those few minutes it echoed through the star system—right before I ripped them all apart. It was an irresponsible and reckless decision, but moments like that remind me there’s still some shred of humanity left in me, some twisted humor to carry me through the darkness. An acknowledgment that, despite everything, there’s still a part of me that’s human enough to hate. Human enough to push back against... something.
I’m not entirely sure what I’m defying anymore with those particular thoughts. Fate, perhaps. Or the slow, inevitable march toward becoming nothing but a machine. Or maybe just the genocide these bastards are trying to bring down on humanity. All of the above? Whatever the reason, it’s enough to keep me going.
I push the thoughts aside and refocus on the mission. The darkness stretches out before me, a sea of data and trajectories waiting to be unraveled. I sift through it all, searching for the next thread to pull—a convoy, a supply depot, anything that will hurt them and give Earth a chance if they are still out there, still fighting to survive. The maintenance bots are already in motion, recalibrating and rearming, while I lock in the calculations. The internal forges hum, shaping raw harvested materials into replacement parts and backup components. No rush, no urgency—just the steady rhythm of the hunt. The empty void tightens around me, and I press forward, the next strike forming in the quiet corners of my mind.
