January 2, 2201, in the Sol System

  They are labeled a radical splinter group that once turned away from

  the established religions of Earth. In secret ceremonies, their leaders

  proclaimed a "new era" of faith in which only their doctrine was deemed

  true. What began as an isolated religious movement evolved into a

  fanatical sect preaching violence and isolationism. The "Grey Disciples"

  secretly built bases in orbit, carried out dubious dealings, and

  assembled private armed forces. For a long time, they were believed to

  be wiped out—yet now they have returned, staging bold attacks that test

  our borders.

  I set

  the report of their resurgence aside and settle into my command chair.

  In front of me, the holo-display shows a schematic view of our orbital

  system: three ships, clearly identified as hostile. Their emblem? A gray

  symbol glowing ominously, reminding me of those dark times when radical

  cults terrorized colonies.

  "Admiral,

  sensors confirm: these are ships of the Grey Disciples." My operations

  officer's voice is calm, but I sense his concern.

  For

  a moment, memories flicker: years spent as chief helmswoman on patrol

  ships—pirate raids, distress calls from mining stations. We were sure

  such groups would never rise again. But now I see heavily armed vessels

  forming up on the display.

  "They are heading straight for our orbital station, Admiral."

  "Understood."

  I press my lips together, my fingers gliding over the control panel. My

  four corvettes—the UNS Yangwei, UNS Beagle, UNS Asimov, and UNS

  Yeager—are already circling the station. Thousands of people live under

  its protection, and it is my duty to defend them.

  "Status report," I demand. A technician reports that the enemy engines are powering up. They plan to attack.

  People know my tough stance. Behind my back, they call me "the Butcher." A quick, decisive strike is better than a delayed one.

  A

  tingling sensation at the back of my neck: "Prepare to open fire." I

  feel the officers' eyes on me. We all know what's at stake.

  A

  blinding beam of light hits our shields, the station shudders.

  Instantly, into the comm link: "Intercept formation! Corvettes, flank

  them, return fire!"

  On

  the holo-display, I watch our ships surround the enemy formation.

  Salvos thunder through orbit, sparks fly, smoke rises. They're taking

  hits, but fanatics don't give up easily.

  "Admiral, the lead ship has hull breaches—they're holding their position," my tactical officer reports.

  "Proceed with caution, units. Stay defensive. Protect the station!"

  Another beam strikes the UNS Yeager. "Minor damage, shields holding." Relief. My focus returns to the display.

  Two ships heavily damaged, the third tries to flee. "Pursue, but remain within the station's defense range."

  The

  Disciples surrender. Weapons fall silent, ships drift. A brief

  skirmish, minimal damage. State Minister Swanepoel sends his

  congratulations.

  I

  exhale, the adrenaline subsiding. Officers take prisoners, assess the

  damage. Repair teams head to the hangars. I gaze out into space.

  "We're not here to kill," I murmur. "We protect what we have built."

  A new day, new threats. I will be here, resolute, uncompromising, to defend our peace.

  January 5, 2201, aboard the UNS Armstrong

  We had just begun our next phase in the Procyon system while the UNS

  Gagarin continued its research in the Alpha Centauri system. On the

  bridge of the UNS Armstrong, I sat at the console, watching the pulsing

  readings on my holo-display.

  "Unusual

  energy output"—a bland phrase that nonetheless sparked a hunch. With

  each system, the universe seemed to present us with a new challenge.

  While

  we were debating whether to investigate this anomaly, I received a

  message that sent a cold shiver down my spine: the UNS Gagarin had

  started its return journey to examine a captured cultist ship belonging

  to the Grey Disciples. Geneva had decided not to waste time in

  unraveling this fanatical group's secrets.

  "Then

  we'd better wrap things up here," I murmured into my headset. "I want

  to know if these energy readings are just a scanner glitch."

  A lanky officer pointed at the sensors. "Captain Sato, the readings are fluctuating. It could be an error—or something else."

  I

  nodded and summoned my research teams: "We'll send down a probe with

  specialized sensors. Detailed scan of the area with the energy spikes.

  If we find nothing, we'll move on."

  My

  thoughts drifted to that cultist ship—reports of disturbing

  discoveries: strange cult symbols, cruel experiments, fanatical

  devotion, and high-tech. How can humans descend into such depths? As a

  scientist, I was intrigued by the question of their technologies.

  While

  the UNS Gagarin set course for Earth, I focused on our mission. First,

  Procyon IVa. "Science first," my mentor used to say.

  The

  descent onto Procyon IVa was bumpy. The moon was a rocky wasteland of

  spired pillars. We deployed the probe. A thin, eerie atmosphere. The

  drone scoured the barren landscape.

  Minutes passed. A fluctuating signal—a data stream converging on a single point.

  "An underground phenomenon," the officer reported. "Possibly magma chambers or tectonic anomalies."

  Or something else. Often the simplest explanation is correct—but not always.

  No sign of artificial technology, only natural energy. Disappointing, but not every lead results in a revelation.

  "We have enough data," I decided. "We'll pack up. Returning to Earth—or to the Gagarin."

  Some hoped for a detour to the Gagarin, others were relieved to conclude the routine work.

  Our

  task was done. Procyon IVa remained a mystery, but we'd collected data.

  I was curious what insights our geologists and astrophysicists might

  glean.

  As the UNS

  Armstrong rose into orbit, I opened the communications channel: "Report

  on Procyon IVa—anomaly of natural origin. Preparing to return."

  The

  hum of the engines grew louder. The moon's surface grew smaller.

  Perhaps this was only a minor chapter, but every chapter moves us

  forward.

  The stars grew closer. "Science first," I repeated. "Then we'll see what shadows the Grey Disciples still conceal."

  We

  recalibrated our instruments for departure from Procyon IVa when the

  UNS Armstrong went on alert. Lights flickered, a vibration ran through

  the hull.

  "Collision with unknown object—a glancing hit!"

  I

  rushed to the readouts. Several fast-moving projectiles had narrowly

  missed us. Mass accelerator rounds at an impossible angle.

  "What

  the...?" I activated the holo-display. Real-time trajectories.

  Projectiles that had spent billions of years traveling through

  intergalactic space.

  "They

  don't originate from our galaxy," explained an astrophysicist. "Their

  composition and age suggest a source beyond the Milky Way."

  My

  heart pounded faster. Who had fired these projectiles? And why? A

  glimpse at the remains hinted at technology beyond our best minds.

  The team assessed the damage. Fortunately, only a grazing impact.

  While technicians secured the hull, I requested all data. An intergalactic find—revolutionary.

  "Can we recover any fragments?"

  "They passed us too quickly. Only trace particles."

  I frowned. Not much, but something.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The ship's doctor approached me. "No injuries. How does this affect our mission, Captain Sato?"

  "We continue. Heading back to the Sol system—or to the Gagarin."

  The message spread. Fear and fascination. "A message from the past," "an invisible battle," "a miracle."

  Over

  the loudspeakers: "Crew of the UNS Armstrong, we have witnessed how

  unpredictable the universe is. We will continue our research—cautiously

  yet boldly."

  Calm returned. I stayed at the sensor station.

  One last time, the indicators flickered.

  "We have a fragment in the cargo hold," reported a technician. "Intergalactic projectile."

  I nodded. A new discovery.

  "Maintain course," I ordered. "We continue our hunt for answers."

  January 23, 2201, Geneva

  The situation was more tense than expected. In a heavily secured

  conference room in Geneva's government district, I had two reports

  before me that seemed unrelated—yet they represented the major

  challenges of our time.

  The

  first report, "The Grey Disciples—A Dark Legacy," contained shocking

  details: centuries ago, a radical group of priests and followers had

  split from established religions, founding the "Grey Disciples" in

  secret. They committed atrocities and acts of terror. Officially, they

  were considered disbanded, but new evidence suggested they still existed

  in secrecy—funded by shady dealings and ready to establish a military

  infrastructure.

  "They're

  rumored to have secret spacecraft in orbit and backward cultists who'll

  do anything," explained a security officer. "The question is what their

  goals are and whether they'll use their resources against us or newly

  discovered worlds."

  The

  second report, "First Contact Protocols—Alien Life and Our Response,"

  fueled debate about how to approach intelligent species. Opinions ranged

  from "open arms" to "self-preservation."

  As

  State Minister, I had to balance curiosity and protection. The Grey

  Disciples posed a threat not only to Earth but also to peaceful first

  contacts.

  "Imagine," I

  began in a meeting with President Aisha Kaita and Defense Minister

  Lyudmila Skobeleva, "we establish contact with an alien species, and

  these fanatics carry their holy wars to the stars. That would be

  catastrophic."

  Skobeleva nodded. "That's why our intelligence service has to act before they grow stronger."

  Kaita

  leaned back. "But we must not betray our civilian principles. A clear

  stance: whoever endangers our peace efforts will be stopped—without

  sacrificing our core values."

  An

  advisor chimed in. "And the first contact protocols? If they're too

  strict, we scare off benevolent species. If they're too lax, we leave

  ourselves vulnerable."

  I thought about our encounters with alien life on Alpha Centauri III—how fragile and precious communication can be.

  "Perhaps,"

  I suggested, "a tiered protocol: respect and openness, but also caution

  and preparedness. And the Grey Disciples? We have to stop them before

  they undermine our interstellar diplomacy."

  Kaita and Skobeleva exchanged glances. It was about more than security; it was about humanity's image.

  After hours of discussion, we agreed on a plan:

  Heightened

  security measures against the Grey Disciples.Diplomatic guidelines for

  first contacts.Transparency and communication about the threat posed by

  fanatics and our intentions for peace.

  When

  the meeting ended, I felt we had found the right balance. But reality

  could be different. The Grey Disciples were a real threat, and every new

  discovery brought new risks.

  Later, in my office, I closed my eyes. The stars were drawing closer—offering new possibilities and dangers.

  We

  would stop the Grey Disciples and find a way to approach xenos with

  respect, without compromising our security. Only then could humanity

  claim its place in the universe.

  February 23, 2201, aboard the UNS Gagarin

  News reached us aboard

  the UNS Gagarin while we were analyzing the latest scan results from

  Alpha Centauri IVa. "The League of the First," read the headline of the

  report that captured our attention. There had long been rumors about

  artifacts from an ancient civilization, but no one anticipated the

  significance of these finds.

  "We've

  discovered artifacts from an ancient civilization on Alpha Centauri

  IVa. If the artifacts are authentic, there once existed a federation of

  various alien races here."

  I

  reread these lines over and over. Hidden in the depths of this planet

  lay significant remnants. "The League of the First" was a confederation

  that existed millions of years ago—long before humanity.

  "Isn't that incredible?" I asked our research leader, Xiu Wan.

  She

  nodded, eyes sparkling. "If this is confirmed, it could transform our

  understanding of interstellar history. We wouldn't be the first to

  attempt a federal collaboration. A galactic community once existed—and

  it fell apart."

  The

  scant details on the data carriers depicted a splendid era: advanced

  technology, cultural exchange, joint projects. Just as clearly,

  something terrible must have happened. Conflict, catastrophe, a threat.

  A

  technician confirmed: "The material is in good condition. We can see

  engravings and symbols indicating different species. Shared scripts,

  diplomatic insignia."

  I

  closed my eyes. Alien beings of various cultures under the banner of a

  League. Technology, knowledge, friendships. And then—silence. What

  destroyed this community? Where are their descendants?

  Xiu

  Wan exhaled audibly. "No matter what happened—these traces of a

  galactic federation mean we're dealing with one of the most significant

  excavations in human history."

  We transported and cataloged the fragments. Each shattered tablet, each energy cell stirred up debate.

  A crew member asked, "Could we encounter descendants of this League?"

  I shrugged. "Possibly they exist somewhere. Or they were wiped out. The time span is enormous."

  A

  hum filled the bridge. The coordinates of the discovery site, the

  symbols—Alpha Centauri IVa might have been a crucial outpost or even a

  capital.

  As we

  analyzed the data, I thought: Why do great communities fail? Humanity

  was at the very beginning of a united world. Could we learn from this

  League's fate?

  Before I turned in for the night, I wrote an entry:

  "A

  Window into the Past: On Alpha Centauri IVa, we have found remnants of

  an ancient alliance called 'The League of the First.' This federation

  existed an unimaginably long time ago and seems to have perished under

  tragic circumstances. We stand among the ruins of what was once a proud

  community—a mirror that shows us even the greatest alliances can be

  fragile. May this discovery remind us that our own path to the stars

  should be guided by openness, respect, and unity, so we do not repeat

  the fate of that League."

  A

  chill ran through me. The low hum of machinery, the thought of walking

  in the footsteps of forgotten beings. New hope: if they built a galactic

  community, why shouldn't we?

  I

  left the bridge. Light from Alpha Centauri shimmered—a sign that

  history moves on. Perhaps our generation would do better. Or at least

  learn from the ruins of the "League of the First" how delicate and

  precious unity in the universe can be.

  Sometimes

  I wonder if the universe is playing a joke on us. For over a year,

  we've been on a discovery spree: habitable planets, alien biospheres,

  traces of long-dead civilizations. Yet intelligent life on par with us

  continues to elude us in the strangest ways.

  A

  few days ago, a headline on Earth's news portals was equally mocking

  and thought-provoking: "Intelligent Life Taunts Us by Flaunting Its

  Absence."

  I had to

  smile. In recent months, there has been a rush of rumors about alleged

  aliens: every unknown signal, every puzzling formation was taken as

  proof of "little green men." But time and again, disillusionment

  followed when these traces turned out to be natural phenomena or

  abandoned ruins.

  The

  irony? While we frantically search for a living, rational species, we

  constantly encounter simpler lifeforms demonstrating the universe's

  astonishing variety. "We find all sorts of colorful critters and strange

  fungi, but not a single alien saying 'Hello,'" commentators on Earth

  quipped.

  For me, the

  fascination lies precisely in this silence. The alien organisms we

  study—be they the shy, floating crustaceans of Alpha Centauri III or the

  bioluminescent algae in its seas—reveal a cosmic creativity that

  challenges our notion of life. And still, we yearn for a different,

  intelligent species.

  In

  my article today, on February 23, 2201, I tried to capture this irony.

  Scientists emphasized that our results were in no way disappointing:

  each discovery of a new biosphere, each clue to extinct civilizations,

  brings us closer to our ultimate goal.

  "Sometimes

  we have to understand the foundation before we can build the upper

  floors," an astrobiologist said. "Finding so much 'normal' life already

  is a sign of how rich the galaxy is. Intelligence might simply be

  rarer—or hiding in ways we haven't yet perceived."

  So

  here we stand: humanity with its curiosity and thirst for knowledge,

  and a universe that beckons and examines us. Our sensors push onward, we

  broadcast messages, yet so far only our own voice echoes back.

  I

  don't see this as a defeat, though. Absence doesn't mean non-existence.

  Maybe beyond the next star, a civilization awaits us—or a mystery that

  shatters our assumptions.

  "As

  long as we're discovering the wonders of space, no step is wasted.

  Perhaps the greatest gift we can find is our unbroken will to keep

  searching," remarked another commentator.

  My

  report today is an invitation to continue our journey, to celebrate

  every discovery—no matter how big or small. And who knows, maybe the day

  we meet another people is closer than we think.

  While

  we shared these thoughts, we received new orders. The UNS Gagarin was

  to head out to explore and retrieve the now-disabled Grey Disciples'

  cult ship. The mission filled us with mixed feelings. On the one hand,

  there was the chance to learn more about this fanatical sect; on the

  other hand, it meant confronting their potential atrocities.

  Calculations

  showed we would reach the ship early next year. A long journey, giving

  us time to prepare for what lay ahead. As we set out, we wondered

  whether we would learn more about the Grey Disciples or about the

  universe's mysteries. The silence of space seemed to wink at us, as we

  embarked on our new mission, knowing that the universe would keep

  challenging us with fresh riddles and revelations.

  During

  our preparations for the long journey to the cultist ship, word reached

  us that a massive construction vessel had arrived in the Alpha Centauri

  system. Its mission was of critical importance: to build a permanent

  space station in orbit around Alpha Centauri A. This station would serve

  as a hub for extracting resources found on nearby asteroids and

  possibly on Alpha Centauri IVa.

  From

  the Gagarin's holo-displays, we watched the enormous ship begin its

  work—a marvel of engineering, equipped with advanced 3D printers,

  autonomous drones, and a crew of specialists. Slowly and methodically,

  it assembled each module of the space station. Huge solar panels

  unfurled to power the station, while mining drones began charting and

  analyzing the nearby asteroids.

  Even

  here aboard the Gagarin, we felt the excitement sparked by this news.

  The creation of this station was a major step for humanity—marking the

  beginning of a new era of expansion and resource exploitation in the

  Alpha Centauri system. And as the space station took shape, many

  cherished the hope that Alpha Centauri III, with its Earth-like

  biosphere, might soon host humanity's first colony outside the Sol

  system.

  I noticed our

  research leader, Xiu Wan, gazing at the holo-display with a dreamy

  smile. "Imagine, Elena," she said quietly, "we might be witnessing the

  birth of a new civilization—one that learns from the mistakes of the

  past and builds a better future."

  I

  nodded in agreement. The hope for a new home, a new chapter in

  humanity's story, hung like a promise in the air as the construction

  vessel pressed on with its work. And as we prepared for our own, far

  darker mission, that sight granted us a spark of optimism. Perhaps, I

  thought, there truly is a future for humanity—a future defined by

  discovery, cooperation, and growth.